


Becoming Lady Darcy

by stellamoonewrites



Category: Death Comes to Pemberley - P. D. James, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, Multi, Post-Pemberley Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 19:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 66
Words: 144,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16225475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamoonewrites/pseuds/stellamoonewrites
Summary: Elizabeth Bennet was not the first obstinate, headstrong girl to roam the corridors of the great house in Derbyshire, and she wouldn't be the last....Lady Elizabeth Darcy is the mistress of Pemberley, now a tourist attraction in the hands of the Historic House Society. Living there with her teenage daughter, Harriet, and her best friend Maggie Wickham, her main worries are the matter of the new roof and her ongoing feud with the curmudgeonly Joyce Hutchinson.All is well, until a production team arrives to film Pride and Prejudice, and Lizzy finds herself living in close proximity to Harriet's Dad, the brooding director who broke her heart, and fascinated by the handsome actor Benn Williams, who is playing her ancestor, Fitzwilliam Darcy.Set in the dramatic peaks of the Derbyshire countryside, Lizzy's story twists and turns throughout her own lifetime and the histories of her very famous family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting again as i did a ridiculous amount of rewrites and restructuring... resulting in a story that didn't make sense.  
> Apologies if you have already read a lot - hopefully you won't mind a quick re-read.  
> Any comments gratefully received.  
> Hope you enjoy it x
> 
> Pemberley in this story is Lyme Park in Cheshire - I work there as a volunteer and all of the rooms and places named in this story are real and you can visit them (or see pictures at least!)

PROLOGUE  
The horse thundered on through the countryside, the quickening thud-thud thud-thud of hooves on firm ground pounding through the rider, each punctuated by his own breathing as he held tight to the beast who had been ridden hard. As he powered on past an outcrop of trees, a herd of agile does and tottering fawns rushed into the small and protective wood which garnished the hillside; their burnished tones blazing across the muted green of the landscape where the soft whispering grasslands faded into an outcrop of thick rock at the base. This ancient hunting ground had been gifted to him by a benevolent monarch, grateful for his valiant and brave services on the battlefield; its location scratched out on a faded piece of parchment. Piers D’Arcy had followed the gentle curve of the terrain to this spot as marked. So, he thought as he admired his new lands, this was Pembarlegh.


	2. Lizzy

Lizzy slouched down in the water, the hot water resting on her top lip; it was dangerously close to her nostrils and she knew that one mistimed breath in would result in water up her nose. She concentrated, listening intently to the voices outside in the corridor. This was not happening today. It had taken nearly forty minutes to run this bath, relying as she did, on hundred and fifty-year-old plumbing and a heater that had been installed at least a decade before Hitler invaded the Rhineland.

The water was bubbly, and she poked her toes out of a mound of foam, they were surprisingly glittery; she had forgotten the sparkly pedicure that had come courtesy of her daughter the night before. Half-submerged, she could hear the bass tones of what she guessed was an older man, and then the higher pitched tone of a woman. Movement outside the door now, the scrape and shuffle of people and bags against plaster and paint, and she gripped her hands on the side of the bath, ready to submerge like a fleshy submarine.

The voices were loud. Getting louder. American? Yes, American. Reluctantly she eased herself out of the claw-footed enamelled bath and grabbed herself a towel from the back of the door, tying up the wanton mass of brown curls high on top of her head. Cautiously, she looked out into the hallway.

The vocal couple; a large, stocky man with a rucksack on his back and a small, rotund woman wearing a sun visor wrapped around a massive bouffant, were currently gazing at the pictures on the wall, flicking through the guidebook to see exactly what they were looking at, confused at not seeing collection of eclectic prints documented in the glossy pages.

“I think you might be lost,” she said cheerfully, walking out with all the confidence of a gameshow host, still dressed in her towel and desperately hoping that they would think it was some quirky period costume.

The large gentleman turned around quickly, almost hitting his companion across the face with his bag. “Oh, hello there,” he exclaimed, moving toward her with his hand outstretched, and which she shook firmly. “You know, I think you might be right. Can you point us in the right direction?”

“Yes, turn straight about and out the door, then turn right and back down the stairs”, she pointed out the directions, checking his understanding. He nodded quickly, and she could almost see him working through the route in his head.

“Well, that’s just great, thank you for your assistance, Miss-?”

Lizzy hesitated for a moment, before stating firmly and with a rehearsed smile, “Darcy”.

The woman perked up, her eyebrows raised as she looked at her husband with a surreptitious glance and a suppressed beam etching itself across her face; Lizzy knew the question that was coming next.

“Excuse me,” she said almost furtively, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you one of the Darcy family?” She had immediately become flustered, her face now matching the same colour as the flamingo on her t-shirt.

“Yes,” Lizzy smiled warmly. “I’m Elizabeth Darcy – but please call me Lizzy, so lovely to meet you.” She offered a friendly handshake to the woman, who was now desperately trying to curtsey. “I love that t-shirt! Flamingos are my current favourite thing”.

“Oh my goodness, you’re _Lady Elizabeth Darcy_ … I’ve just been reading about you,” she began flicking through the guidebook she had purchased at the gate. “But I never for one moment thought that… this is amazing… Oh my gosh… wait until I tell the girls back home that I have met a real life English Lady, my friend Evangeline Tennant will eat her hat!” She grabbed her phone out of her pocket, and then hesitated a moment. “Would it be terribly rude to ask for a photograph?”

“Of course not!” Lizzy laughed. “I like a selfie as much as the next person!”

“Crystal,” she grinned. “Crystal Treacher. This here is my husband, Hank...” She leaned forward and gave Lizzy a big, US style embrace as she snapped pictures for posterity. “And if you are ever in Texas, you should most definitely call and visit us.”

“I most definitely will call and visit you,” she grinned. “I hope you do a good line in Barbecue!”

Crystal squealed, “oh my my my! We do the best barbecue in Katy… don’t we Hank!”

“We sure do!” Hank was suddenly animated at the suggestion of food, and he started to describe the slow cooked brisket in intricate detail.

“Hank,” Lizzy pleaded. “You’re making me so hungry, stop it!”

Crystal grinned again, with a smile that looked as if she had slept with a coathanger in her mouth; her bouffant bouncing up and down as she jiggled with laughter, “well, Lady Elizabeth, we will be on our way.”

“It has been so lovely to meet you,” Lizzy beamed. “And here,” she passed them a card from the kitchen table, “take this to the tearoom and have a proper real afternoon tea… my treat!”

Crystal squealed and gave her another hug, as Lizzy hoped that her towel wouldn’t fall down. After thanking her again profusely, the Treachers turned around, making their way down the corridor and to the right as instructed, talk of the imminent green-faced envy of Evangeline Tennant escaping from their lips. Lizzy watched as they walked to the large oak door that led back to the grand staircase and the rest of the house; before she went through Crystal Treacher turned around and said in a loud whisper,

“Lady Elizabeth, I hate to be so terribly rude, but your dress looks like a bath towel.”

She winked a large comedy wink, with her large fake eyelashes coated in mascara, and grinned before disappearing into the hallway. 

Lizzy laughed as the door closed, this was the second time it had happened this week. She grabbed some clean clothes from the laundry pile and walked through to the kitchen on the south side of the house, the three windows hidden under the famous portico. From here she could see all the way down the Italianate gardens and see the small car park as it begun to fill for the day.

It was nearing eleven o’clock and she had volunteered to work in the courtyard on a whim a few days before, forgetting that she had a stack of case papers to go through and enough work from her actual job as a probate attorney to keep her busy for the rest of the day. But she couldn’t help it, she loved welcoming people to Pemberley; she could tell when people were visiting for the first time and she greeted them as if she was letting them in on a big secret. She would see them return time and time again, knowing that they were all now part of the magic of the big old house on the hill.

“Harriet?” Lizzy called out upstairs towards her daughter’s bedroom, her voice carrying up the twisting wooden staircase and to the third floor where the sixteen year-old would be hiding under the duvet, pretending that she didn’t have to get up and go to work. “Harriet! Are you awake?”

Harriet Darcy awoke with a jump upon hearing her mother yell and then stubbornly closed her eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. It was early – super early, _well_ before eleven – she knew because of how the sun was shining through the curtains and where it was positioned on the wall, illuminating the face of Bradley from Smash, but not quite reaching the smouldering face of Heathcliff on the Wuthering Heights poster that was directly opposite her bed. It was Saturday, and she had already heard her mum clunking the old plumbing to life, making coffee, doing laundry, watching crap telly. She just wanted to sleep.

Lizzy came in without knocking and walked over to the window and opened the curtains, the early spring sunshine blazed through. Harriet was hiding under her Harry Potter duvet, only a fluff of her hair was visible, and a be-socked limb poking out of the bottom of the bed. She took a moment to pull the sock off her daughter’s foot, before tickling the bottom gently. Harriet’s foot curled and retracted back under the safety of the cover.

“You need to get dressed, you promised Maggie you would help out in the tearoom this morning and people are already here.” Lizzy put a pile of clothes on the chair next to the dresser, grabbed some cups and dishes, before walking back out into the hall.

Harriet sighed before putting a pillow over her head and giving a silent scream. She hated working in the tearoom, especially as she had to dress up in regency costume and serve afternoon tea complete with cake stands and fancy tea to foreign tourists who wanted to take her picture for Instagram, and tip her with currency that she wouldn’t be able to spend. Her friends from school thought it was a bit weird that she lived in a house that you could pay to visit, they all lived within five minutes of each other on the small housing estate in Lambton which had been built out of chunk of the parkland back in the forties.  It could have been worse though, she could have been shoved off to boarding school like her cousins, Tom and Josh, or forced to some Swiss finishing school like her mum’s sister, Imogen, who was only four years older than her and had already appeared on Made in Chelsea and a whole cacophony of celebrity websites, dressed in skirts so short you could practically see her cervix. She didn’t really see Imogen that much, but she knew that she would look down on her brown waves, un-plucked eyebrows and ability to get out of cars without flashing her underwear.

Harriet dragged herself out of bed; she had to look on the bright side of all of this. She didn’t have to travel far to get home (three flights of stairs) and, if she was nice to Maggie (boss and Aunt) she could leave early and take some carrot cake and a cheese scone with her. Then there was the pay – the Historical House Society paid quite well, and Harriet found the six pounds an hour that she earned came in quite handy for her current eBay addiction. She was currently bidding on an embroidered shoulder bag from the thirties, which was ending this afternoon and she hoped she had placed enough money on to guarantee a win.

She wasn’t sure how she had become so fascinated with handbags, but they were so personal and so unique to each owner, you could tell a lot about a person from their bag. Her mum carried a big old leather bag with only one inside pocket filled with change and jewellery she discarded throughout the day, and a faded designer label which would have been impressive when it was new about fifteen years ago. It held everything that she could possibly need for the day, but everything was thrown into it and you had to rummage about to find what you needed. It was organised, but messy a bit like her mum. Aunt Maggie had a smaller blue fabric bag, that was well-structured and had plenty of pockets for all those bits and pieces that she kept squirrelled away. It was like Maggie, in that respect. And Joyce; well, Joyce had a wonderfully beautiful Hermes Birkin, which she used every day and treated with care and respect. She had told Harriet once that she had saved up for it for years, invested in something she really wanted; a bag that would never go out of style, would never kowtow to fashion and trends. Harriet thought this bag was a good reflection of the woman who ran Pemberley; and it helped to support her theory.

The first bag Harriet had been given was made from a sturdy, yet supple leather; lined with a bright blue shot silk, it smelled like rolled tobacco and the faint musky smell of something forbidden and exotic. This particular bag had belonged to her suffragette great-grandma who had known the Pankhursts and been arrested more than twelve times. It had been given to her on her sixteenth birthday by her great aunt, who proclaimed that all Darcy women should be in possession of a beautiful bag. Sybil, with her liver-spotted hands and translucent skin,  had pulled it from a faded green dustbag and held it close, before handing it over slowly as she entrusted something precious and irreplaceable to the teenager with the frizzy hair. 

She didn’t know if she would ever live up to the reputation of Millicent’s handbag – she had been a formidable woman who had lived so many lives, all of which would have been enough for one person in one lifetime - but she found that the more she used it, the harder she tried, her great-grandmother’s memory pushing her on to achieve what she wanted, and stray from the beaten path; she wasn’t going to be a lawyer or a barrister, or one of the strange fake jobs that Grandad Duke and Uncle Charlie got paid to do because their name held a certain appeal with private investors. That was the thing about being a Darcy, she thought, you always think you can’t do what you want, but Harriet had found that being a Darcy was no hindrance preventing her from doing what she wanted… apart from skirting under the radar at school. She was the latest in a long line of obstinate, headstrong girls who had roamed the halls of Pemberley House and she was going to do as she pleased. Strong woman seemed to run in her family, she thought, and she fully intended to be one of them.

She remembered the first time she had read Pride and Prejudice, prompted by a knowing teacher who had gifted her with a well-loved copy of Jane Austen’s classic at the end of term. She had been eleven at the time, not aware of the family connection until her mum showed her the portrait of Mrs Darcy which hung above the fireplace in the Velvet Bedroom. It had taken Harriet a few moments to realise that the Pemberley in her book was not only the house that she lived in, but that Mr Darcy and Elizabeth were her ancestors. It had been a wonderful realisation and as she sat down on the rug, disobediently on the wrong side of the rope, she could almost hear the laughter of the previous residents echoing down the corridors. She bought two picture postcards from the gift shop that day; one of Elizabeth, smiling demurely dressed in yellow satin and adorned with hyacinths, and Mr Darcy, her six times great grandad, dressed in green – older in this portrait, with a suitably Victorian beard, and a gold pocket watch dangling from his waistcoat as he looked out towards The Cage in all his oil painted glory.

 “Did you find my boots, Harry?” Lizzy enquired, walking into the kitchen, where her daughter had left her a cup of coffee on the table.                                             

“Yeah,” she said, absentmindedly eating a piece of toast, whilst playing on her phone.

“And…?”

“God, in the cupboard in the gallery where we always keep the boots!” Harriet was concentrating on her game and did not have time to remind her mother where things were kept.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Harriet! Joyce is going to go mad – we’re not allowed to keep anything in there anymore! I told you this last week when you borrowed them,” Lizzy stomped off out of the kitchen, before returning with the boots.

“Joyce is always mad,” Harriet commented. “I don’t know how you will be able to tell the difference to be honest.”

Lizzy tried to hold in a laugh but failed. “You can’t say that, Harry!” She took a gulp of the coffee. “You can’t blame Joyce, she’s always gets a little bit tetchy when production teams are due.”

Harriet was used to filming taking place at the house, it happened a lot. Last year they had been sent to Spain for a week by a production company when the director of some avant-garde science fiction thriller had fallen in love with the house and wanted to stay there to work on his vision. Obviously, the society had acquiesced to his request, for a price, and he took up residence in one of the staff flats on the third floor for a fortnight, and was often found wandering about the house late at night in his underpants.

Lizzy got up from the table and moved closer to the window, arriving on site were three large coaches with blacked out windows and silver livery.

“Damn, it’s the Barnabus tour,” she sighed, before grabbing her fake pearls and the Cath Kidston ‘Darcy’ print scarf that she wore whilst on desk duty. “I didn’t know they were due this weekend, no wonder Joyce is agitated! You better go straight to the Orangery and ask Maggie where she wants you today, I’ll go and see if Kate and Jeff want a hand on the ticket desk.”  The two Darcy ladies finished their toilette quickly before joining the Pemberley staff downstairs and playing their roles to perfection, as always.


	3. Lady Anne: 1780

In the late 1700’s, George Frederick Darcy had remodelled the north front of the house for reasons only known to himself. He had employed the services of one of the Wyatt brothers who found some of the more Elizabethan aspects of the house not exactly pleasing to his eye. George, whose wife Anne was in town and due to give birth to their first child within the next few weeks, left the venerated architect in charge. Eight months later he returned to Derbyshire with his wife and son – a strong little boy called Fitzwilliam - to see that the bellcote which had once stood proudly atop the frontispiece had been removed and rebuilt on a small incline to the east of the house. George was now in possession of a three-story folly with a spire which Wyatt had named ‘The Lantern’; his wife laughed at how remarkably in fashion they now were and how her sister would commission something even grander to be built in the gardens of Rosings Park.

It was one evening as the Darcys walked the short distance to the Lantern that George Darcy decided that it would be the perfect occasion upon which to present his wife with the traditional gift given to each Darcy bride following the successful delivery of her firstborn son. The necklace consisted of an intricate interlocking chain crafted by a local silversmith, and from it hung a pendant made of diamond and pearls. The pearls themselves were Darcy heirlooms having been in the family for at least three generations. Although no one was exactly sure, it was Pemberley lore that these pearls had once belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots, who had once been held at a nearby and long-gone manor called Moreville and were gifted to the lady of the house for her kindness. Nobody knew the truth, the facts of which had been lost to history a long time ago, but regardless of their origin, the Darcy Pearls were an important gift to give. After the birth of a Darcy heir, three of the gems were carefully removed from the tripled-stranded necklace, remounted in gold, and encased with diamonds, before being returned to the family vault for another generation; each pendant was unique to its owner and no two were the same, each husband having the final say in the design that would best suit his wife. Anne Darcy received her pendant with the greatest of pleasures, and they remained in the hollow folly at the top of the hill until the lit beacons signalled to them that it was time to return home.

A few years later, whilst running down the hill with her son on a sticky summer night, the necklace snapped, and the pendant fell to the ground bouncing on the stones and disappearing into the meadow. Fitzwilliam fumbled around on the ground until he found it, concealed in a clump of grass. He was always very good at finding things and he handed it to his mother proudly. She ruffled his hair, before tucking it into the pocket of her dress, and taking her son by the hand as they walked the remaining distance back to Pemberley. Lady Anne Darcy only noticed that one of the saltwater gems was missing when she returned home and placed it back in her jewel box, and whilst she was grieved at the loss of this precious stone, she was certain she would be able to create a treasure hunt with Fitzwilliam to find it – he was such an agreeable boy, but he needed a playmate. George’s steward Wickham had a young boy of a similar age and she resolved to introduce them to each other as soon as she could.

The weather had broken that evening, the storm over Derbyshire lashing the ground with thick, heavy rain; the earthy smell of cold water on the warm, dry soil filling the air. The ancient pearl was absorbed into the top soil, disappearing into the earth, falling through the cracks of time, only to be found over a hundred years later by a tall, fair-haired boy with a curl to the nape of his neck who was digging in the soil, hiding in the grass from a girl with blue eyes who was desperately trying to find him. He rubbed the dirt off and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers for safekeeping, fully aware that he had found something rare and beautiful.

 


	4. Lizzy

Maggie Wickham knew one or two things about Lizzy Darcy that the paying public did not. Firstly, she knew that the string of pearls that she wore to greet visitors was fake. Maggie never understood why Lizzy felt the need to put on an act when working the desk at Pemberley as she did every Saturday afternoon, preparing for the day like an actress prepping for a role, but she did know that it impressed the card-carrying members of the Historical House Society to see their ‘Lady Darcy’ dressed up as they expected. She knew Lizzy didn’t mind obviously, it was something that she did quite often throughout the year when the house and garden were busy, or volunteers were thin on the ground. She was always posing for photographs and playing the convivial host as generations of Darcys had done before her, reminding visitors to tag her in their selfies and telling them morsels of information about the house, imparting secrets like a wartime spy.

Secondly, Maggie also knew that behind Lizzy’s perfect RP and noble name, there was a regular Derbyshire girl who betrayed her upbringing by dropping her ‘aitches’ and saying ‘I’ instead of ‘one’. She was so unlike the other members of her immediate family. Her grandfather Winston had been one of the old guard, eighty-three when he died, he had been brought up with a stiff upper lip and a silver spoon thrust firmly up his backside, but he had been kind and generous and his upper-class curmudgeonly ways developed into a wonderful juxtaposition against the laidback manners of his granddaughter, who had been educated in the local primary school in Lambton.

Lizzy had been five when her mother died; her clothes and possessions vanishing into bags and boxes, never to been seen again. Her father, grieving and tired, was in no state to look after the small girl who was a constant reminder of Patricia; she had fought so bravely and for so long that he didn’t know what to do with himself now that he was no longer caring for her. His son, the resilient eight-year-old with his mother’s eyes, was already settled at boarding school and it was felt that it would be best if he remained there, but nobody knew what could be done about Elizabeth, who was too young yet to be sent away. Reminded of happy memories of his own childhood, Hugh sent his daughter to Derbyshire to live with her grandfather until he could look at her without crying for the immense loss they had all suffered.

The slight, curly haired girl with the sad grey eyes stood in the porch, dwarfed by her huge suitcase; Maggie had watched the new arrival, eyeing her with suspicion as Winston took her gently by the hand and led up the stone steps, through the entrance hall and into the crackling, musty warmth of the drawing room. I always wanted a little sister, Maggie thought; already planning how the wild looking child with the untamed curls would fit into the small gang of friends who roamed the grounds looking for adventure wherever they could find it.

“Here you go, your ladyship!”

Maggie walked over to her friend, handing her a large mug of coffee emblazoned with Colin Firth’s face and ‘I Love Mr Darcy’ on it. Lizzy laughed, taking a large swig and grabbing her bag from behind the counter, rummaging about in its murky depths. The room at the back of the house was light and airy and it had, at some point in the past, been the head housekeeper’s room, although it had been the ‘shop’ for as long as Maggie or Lizzy could remember. As much as the estate was Lizzy’s home, it was Maggie’s too. Most literary loving visitors to Pemberley were usually astonished to see that a Wickham worked in these hallowed halls – it was almost sacrilegious for them to see the name ‘Wickham’ underneath the gold Pemberley logo on her name badge - but as much as Fitzwilliam Darcy’s family had played their role in the continuation of the estate, so had George Wickham’s.

“If you are looking for your Jammie Dodgers Harriet pinched them when you were out doing a meet and greet with the Barnabus group,” Maggie smiled, rearranging some guidebooks that weren’t in their proper places and tidying up a display in the centre of the room. She paused for a moment to take stock of the day; it had been the busiest of the season so far, and they had been rushed off their feet since the gates had opened. Poor Harriet had been serving afternoon tea all day in full regency costume and had suffered in the underground heat of the tea room on this uncharacteristically hot Saturday in April. “Don’t worry though, I sent her upstairs early with a club sandwich, two pieces of chocolate fudge cake and a Twix.”

“Which she will have eaten all to herself,” Lizzy chastised, before posing dramatically on the ticket desk, hand swept over her face like dramatic heroine. “Nobody suffers like I do, Miss Wickham. No-one.”

“Wow,” Maggie deadpanned. “Just. Wow.”

Lizzy let out a loud, hard laugh which echoed out into the courtyard and made an elderly lady jump, and then start complaining loudly.

She snorted, “Oh dear, best not upset the guests – that will be more points for Joyce to poke me with.”

Placing her cup down and grabbing a Pemberley postcard and magnet, she made her way over to the sour-faced woman with a serene smile upon her face, freebies in her hand and ‘the pleasure of meeting you’ on her lips.

Maggie smiled to herself, Lizzy Darcy could be about fifteen different people in one conversation, but she was always so wonderfully Elizabeth when it mattered. She watched as Lizzy charmed the elderly lady and took some photos with the rest of the party, telling them information about the house and hugging them as if they were old friends, until they were all laughing together, and any offence forgotten. She could always rely on Lizzy to smooth over any guest issues with a Darcy smile and a few, kind words, and she wondered what she would do if at some point in the future they weren’t working together. Pulling her phone out of her pocket she read the email again just to make sure that it was real; she was through to the final stage of the application process… She read the email again; the interview was a week away, if she was successful it would mean that everything would change, not only in terms of work but in everything else that went with it. Living at Pemberley was a way of life; they were all a family and she wasn’t sure if she was completely ready to cut the cord.

The last guests were being politely ushered out of the gates, as the permanent staff began to close the house for the day, walking around the rooms covering furniture with dustcloths, turning off the fake coal fires that burned in each room, and resetting the house for the day. It was a wonderfully warm evening and the fragrance of the coming summer was held in the air like a promise. The flowers in the Italianate Garden were beginning to bloom and up in the Rose Garden you could see the tiniest buds beginning to emerge. Lizzy walked over to her best friend and threw her arms around her shoulder as they walked down the back stairs and towards the office to sign out. For Lizzy living here in this vast house was a normal thing; during her schoolyears she was often chastised for listening to loud music in the lavish grandeur of the dining room – singing loudly with her friends because the acoustics were good and she didn’t have any neighbours, or roller-skating  the length of the Long Gallery using the faces of her ancestors on the portraits lining the walls as markers, but it was her home – everything was tied to Pemberley and even though living here was part of her very essence, but every once in a while she felt swamped by the responsibility of it all; it was as if the house clutching her in a comforting embrace, but holding on so tightly that it was making it harder to breathe.

The volunteers and staff and the full army of people that it took to keep the house up to HHS standards was vast – but nowhere near the amount that it would have taken to run the house in its heyday. Lizzy often wondered how it would have felt being completely packed to the rafters, with people on every floor and living in every room. Her own flat in the Wyatt Tower used to house up to fifteen maids and the housekeeper and, even though it was big enough for two of them, she couldn’t imagine how cramped it would have felt with so many bodies in the six rooms.

There had always been an army of gardeners, valets, butlers, stewards, cooks, nurses and maids keeping Pemberley running and the Darcy family in the comfort they had been accustomed to. It had only been about a century earlier, with all the young men called up to serve, that the household had been reduced to a minimum, never to reach the same level of extravagance after a large number of the estate men and boys failed to return, lost to the ravages of war. Walking through the rooms when no-one was about should have felt eerie, but it didn’t, whilst there were some houses that felt empty and cold once devoid of people, Pemberley still felt warm and welcoming, as if it was simply resting for the night, giving out a creaking yawn and settling down for an evening’s slumber.

 

The moon was high in the sky as Maggie and Lizzy finished their second bottle of wine and nibbled the cold remnants of their takeaway, eating as they did on the small slope directly in front of the south front of the house – the Pemberley View, immortalised in countless paintings, pictures, and on film. Small fairy lights, which had been placed there for a wedding a few weeks ago, twinkled in the bushes to the right of them, the moonlit house reflecting in the lake in front of them. It was a beautiful evening and the pair found that that after their earlier chatter they were now sitting in amicable silence, appreciating the beauty of their grand surroundings.

“I can’t believe this is our last pizza…” Lizzy sighed, coating the final slice of thin crust Hawaiian with garlic mayo and folding it over, the greasy sauce dribbling down her fingers.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed it,” Maggie replied, popping a garlic mushroom in her mouth. “No more takeaway deliveries to Pemberley, it said. It doesn’t work with the aesthetic!”

Lizzy sniggered, it was ridiculous, and she knew full well that this rule had come straight from the top, from the Boss Lady with the angry face and the strict observation of the rules.

“She should eat some pizza once in a while,” she said bitchily. “Needs a little bit of fun in her life to quell the upsurge of wrinkles.”

“Lizzy…” Maggie rolled her eyes, “you know she is only doing her job.”

“Her job is not to boss me about though, is it?”

Maggie looked at her friend, “her job is to look after all of this… you need to cut her some slack occasionally.”

“I don’t know what Joyce’s problem is. It’s not like I’m going to whip my boobs out and start running through the flowerbeds, and if she is looking for historical accuracy then every Darcy I have ever read about has always thought it a brilliant idea to dance on the front lawn,” she slurped her wine. “Even her precious Mr Darcy used to get drunk occasionally… And he also looked nothing like Colin Firth, did he?”

Maggie shook her head, smiling; the portrait of Fitzwilliam Darcy, painted by an artist when he was in Rome, hung inside the Oak bedroom. It showed a young man with a furrowed brow, dark eyes and a chin you could cut glass with; whilst he wasn’t an unattractive man – and Maggie secretly had a bit of a crush on him – he wasn’t as handsome as casting directors wanted the public to believe. In 1995 when Darcymania had been at its height, they had put the portrait in the drawing room hoping to capitalise on the actor’s brooding portrayal. It had been a mistake; most visitors were disappointed to see the real-life gentleman, who whilst still handsome, was nothing like his BBC counterpart. Eventually Winston paid for a local artist to paint an oil of television’s Mr Darcy and the end of each day was spent removing tributes, and sometimes underwear, from the shrine that had appeared.

“Darcy and Elizabeth did stupid things occasionally – Miss Austen wrote them very well, Maggie, very well indeed.” She was shaking her finger like a bossy schoolteacher. “They loved each other, obviously, but it was just a normal marriage and they argued and annoyed each other off, and she even left him once, went to stay at Dunham; there are all these letters she wrote. It would have been a much better book if Jane bloody Austen had put all of this stuff in there, you know.”

“I think Jane Austen put enough in the book, don’t you think?” Maggie had studied the book for her A-Levels and she remembered that some parts would have quite shocking back in the early 1800’s – especially as there had been no attempt to disguise the identities of the main players. She always wondered how the book would have been received by the Darcys when it was first published, how they responded to seeing their romance and courtship played out for the novel-reading public.

“A book is life with the boring bits taken out, but she took out some of the more dramatic bits. The bits that made it real.”

“And you have proof of this, do you?” Maggie asked teasingly.

Lizzy folded her arms, her chin jutted out and she sat on the rug, indignant, the true Darcy inheritance streaking across her face. “There might be proof!”

“What kind of proof?”

“Just proof, I dunno… something!”

“Come off it, Lizzy, if there was any evidence of Darcy and Elizabeth doing anything particularly extraordinary then we would have known about it long ago,” Maggie reasoned. “All of those researchers from Austenation squint over the archives every year trying to find some more information about them. The only thing they found of any interest was that Darcy spent three grand on a pineapple…which he didn’t even eat!”

Lizzy laughed, she loved the story of the pineapple, which had been family-lore and then confirmed by receipts, housekeeping journals and the discovery of a pewter pineapple stand in one of the rooms off the service tunnel.

“You know what,” said Lizzy, still laughing. “I bet I fell asleep one-night reading Jane Austen fanfiction and got all confused... It sounds like something I would do, doesn’t it?” She got up from the rug on the lawn, collected the rubbish in the carrier bag she had brought with her, after fighting to remove it from her trouser pocket, and began the short walk back to the house.

“I’m off to Bedfordshire,” she said, turning.  “Goodnight, Miss Wickham.”

She did a little curtsey and began laughing again, her laughter echoing against the sandstone walls of the south front of the house and down into the ravine.

Maggie walked through the rose garden and up the steps, she turned around for a moment to look at Pemberley – resplendent in the moonlight, it was beautiful and stately and everything the seat of the Darcy family should be. It was a privilege to have grown up here, to have called it home. Lizzy’s statement had concerned her, because if there were private letters that had belonged to Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, then these were of national literary importance and should be preserved for future generations, they couldn’t just be kept under the bed in a cardboard box, which is where her friend kept everything of any significance. She bookmarked the information in her head, determined to find out more.

Lizzy watched from her living room window to see Maggie reach the stable block and sent her a quick text message to let her know that she was home safely too. It was something that they always did, despite their proximity to each other. She reached under her bed until she found what she was looking for; in her hands was a small wooden box, not really of much significance, but inside were bundles and bundles of letters, fastened with yellow ribbon, and sealed with the stamps of Mr and Mrs Darcy. She ran her finger over the seal of Fitzwilliam, the stamp still firm and assured; the bull wearing his coronet with pride, the initials FGD intertwined underneath. The metal was cold and heavy in her hand and the wooden handle smooth and worn; she wondered how many letters he must have written, how much of his life he had committed to the page, how many times he had dripped wax onto paper and pressed down hard to seal it. She traced her finger over the seal of her namesake, the twisted metal initials ‘ED’ underscored by an elaborately embossed feather; the wooden handle was lost to the ages, but the stamp itself still left a mark on her skin as she pressed it deeply against her palm.

Lizzy had spent her teens reading the firmly regimented scrawl of Darcy, the curved dreamy marks of Elizabeth – all of their love, all of their disagreements, everything that had made their marriage work – and she had kept them safe and hidden. She loved reading the letters, loved reading the story of Elizabeth’s first Lady Anne Ball – a tradition the family still maintained today, although it was now held in a swanky hotel in Matlock rather than at Pemberley itself – and her worries over the birth of her first baby. It made the smiling woman in the portrait more real to her as she knew she went through the same experiences and worries. There were also letters received from Jane, and Lydia, a continuing part of the narrative that had captivated readers since 1813.

People always wanted to know what happened after the story ended, and Lizzy had read a lot of novels that came up with some brilliant endings for Mr and Mrs Darcy. She was also a little bit obsessed with reading fanfiction and found that she could lose herself in the worlds that people imagined for her ancestors. The truth, however, was different. She didn’t want the letters claimed by Austenation, who would then sell them to the highest bidder, the words splashed across the literary sections of The Telegraph or printed in decorated hardbacks sold in supermarkets on Valentine’s Day. She knew the importance of these letters; knew that the women from Austenation – the gatekeepers of everything to do with Jane Austen and her novels -  would love to get their hands on these private letters and personal items and all the stories about the Darcys that they told and she had a responsibility as their six-times great granddaughter to keep their secrets safe. As she placed the letters back into the box carefully and hid it carefully in plain sight on the large oak bookcase in the front room, Lizzy knew that she was a very tiny offshoot at the end of the long branch that made up her illustrious family tree


	5. Elizabeth: 1810

Fitzwilliam Darcy journeyed into Hertfordshire in the summer with his good friend, Charles Bingley. By the following Christmas they were both married to sisters from the same inconsequential country family, but so incandescently happy with their lot that neither had cause to repine.

The new mistress of Pemberley was a slight but feisty girl of twenty-one who had been deemed a great beauty in her home county. Whilst unsure of her place in charge of this palatial country seat, she was more than ready to take up the challenge before her. Darcy had commissioned the rebuilding of a new grand saloon, state bedroom suite, and a new attic block for his increasing staff, and whilst his wife appreciated the changes that were being made it would mean that for the first seven years of her tenure, the new Mrs Darcy was living in a building site, a very grand and beautiful building site, but a building site nonetheless.

The family moved their living quarters into the oldest part of the house - only a few parts of the house had remained after the civil war and in the rush to rebuild the grand medieval banqueting hall, now refashioned as a rather elaborate entrance, had been surrounded by a warren of smaller rooms and chambers, which in their part had been interwoven into a newer design half a century earlier. As such, the East wing of the house could feel like travelling through time. Elizabeth’s favourite place to enjoy her new home was the library - Darcy had remodelled this room when he first came of age and it was a beautifully modern room hidden away at the far corner of the building. To reach it Elizabeth had to pass through the family drawing room, with its grand Tudor fireplace and stained-glass windows which had originally hung in the house when it was first built, had been removed to the safety of the local church during the war and then returned to Pemberley very recently; through the Stag Parlour, where the portrait of the beautiful Sophia Darcy hung, dart across the dining room, which Giacomo Leoni had designed for her late father-in-law, and through the small room next to it, where servants could often be found resting between courses. She was excited to see her husband’s designs for the house come to fruition and was eager to see what the new grand staircase was going to look like; she just wished that the craftsmen could find it in their hearts to save her the journey halfway around the house and finish it quickly.

In the library the warm oak floors gave way to soft, wool rugs, led into ornate cream panelling, beautifully patterned wallpaper, gilded coving and rows upon rows of books. The walls were a warm yellow. It reminded her of the dying days of summer, when the sun was warm, and the days were long. In the first few lonely months of marriage, when the winter sun shone brightly over the hills, the whole room was illuminated in a glorious gold and, warmed by the sunshine, she could imagine herself back in her father’s study at Longbourn. It was when Darcy was called away to town that she found herself missing her father the most. Georgiana always sensed this in Elizabeth and would play a new piece of music or suggest a trip to the village for a diversion. She was grateful for the presence of her new sister and the pair enjoyed each other’s company, but Lizzy’s idea of relaxation was to curl up in the reading nook, tucked away in the corner of the room. Supervised by the pictures, portraits and engravings of Darcy ancestors going back generations, the Mistress of Pemberley would make plans, manage staff, write letters and devour the years of plays, poems and literature that they had collected and collated in this small room in the oldest part of the house.

 

Darcy had never dreamed that he would have found such a happy situation in life, never thought that he would find a wife who was so like him - who tested and challenged him daily, with no regard, well not in a real sense, for his rank or fortune. They had argued before he had left – strong words about her management of her lady’s maid, Ellen – how she dealt with her in a less than formal manner and how she needed to be aware of her station. Elizabeth had snapped back with a few choice phrases and had refused to apologise or acknowledge her fault. Already late to depart, he had left without properly saying goodbye and even though God had joined them together he wondered, albeit briefly, if he would have had an easier life with a one of the society beauties who knew three languages and their place.

 

He had travelled to London by horse but his anger, which had been so vehement the night before when he had stopped in the inn at Grantham, had abated and he sent his wife a small missive with an apology. There was a response waiting for him two days later when he returned to Derbyshire House after completing his business, even though Mrs Darcy had accepted his apology there was still a hint of frostiness in her phrasing that put him on edge and reminded him of the cold response to his first failed proposal. Darcy was a proud man, it was part of him, part of his very being, but his love for Elizabeth overshadowed that. He realised that now. It did not matter that she was overly familiar with her maid, that she cared about the family servants – Pemberley was a big house, yes, but the people in it were very much human. As was his wife.

Despite having almost a day of appointments remaining, he saddled his horse and began the journey home to Derbyshire, not wanting to spend another hour away from home. The beacons were lit as he rode up to the north entrance in the early hours of the evening, he handed his horse over to a stable hand and ran through the courtyard, up the stairway and into the entrance hall. He could hear music and followed it upstairs, Georgiana was in the drawing room practicing on the pianoforte, the candles illuminating the concentration on her face. He stopped momentarily as if to stop and embrace her, she looked up, acknowledged his return and continued to play. He was glad, he just wanted Elizabeth and knew immediately where she would be.

Darcy found his wife where he always found her, but this time she was surrounded by papers and ink and large books on household management. She looked confused and slightly perplexed. He was grateful for this as the tone of her last letter suggested that she might not be there at all.

‘Mrs Darcy?’ He realised this was more formal than usual, but he was unsure as to where the land lay, and he was erring on the side of caution.

‘Darcy!’ She smiled at him broadly, “you have returned earlier than expected?"

‘My business was cut short,” he lied. “I decided to return home more promptly than first arranged. If this vexes you in some way I apologise, but I felt that I must see you after the events of last week’.

‘Darcy, are you alright?” She looked up momentarily, and he averted his gaze. “Here, let me fetch you a glass, you look half frozen.”

She walked over towards him and gently stroked his arm before placing a tumbler of brandy in his hand and returning to the table and her work. Darcy sipped it and then walked over to the fire; he realised that he had not removed his overcoat or boots and was standing in the middle of his library looking almost savage. The smell of the journey loitered on his skin and he drank quickly before placing the tumbler down and stating what he needed to.

‘Do you regret your match with me, Mrs Darcy. Am I not, despite the large fortune that your Mother found so desirous, what you require in a marital partner?’

He said it fast, almost not sure what he was saying before it was said and out there, loitering in the air.

‘What did you say?’ She looked up quickly, her eyes searching for his questioningly.

‘Do you regret this…this marriage. Do you regret our hasty engagement?’

Elizabeth walked over to her husband and placed the back of her hand on his forehead. He could smell her scent; violets and bergamot, the perfume she had bought as part of her wedding trousseau and which would ever remind him of those weeks spent in the Lake country for their honeymoon. He closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly before slumping onto the settee.

‘Darcy, are you sick? What is the matter… do I need to call Dr Jeffries?’

She sounded genuinely concerned as she took his still gloved hand and led him over the settee, where a stack of books and papers still resided. She moved the papers and took a seat next to him. She gently stroked the back of his neck.

‘Madam, please do not toy with me.’ He brushed her hand away. ‘Do you wish you hadn’t married me, Lizzy? I am asking you a direct question and I would appreciate a direct response.’

Elizabeth looked confused and then, as she realised, she sighed.

‘This is because of our discussion a few days ago… I see now.’

‘See what?’ he snapped, he had no idea what was happening.

‘Darcy, we disagreed on an issue,” she said plaintively. “You had one idea of how something would happen, and I had another, but this does not mean that we now have a dysfunctional marriage or that I regret anything of what we have.’

‘The tone of your letter, Mrs Darcy, suggested otherwise!’

‘Yes, because I was cross with you and when I came to apologise in the morning for my behaviour and find a resolve, you had already left for town. I had so many questions about the Ball to ask you about and you had skulked off before I could ask you any of them.’

Ah yes, the Lady Anne’s Ball – why had he not remembered about this. Held on the anniversary of his mother’s birthday, the Ball was one of the most important events in the Derbyshire social calendar – it was a massive undertaking for any woman and even his Aunt, Lady Matlock, had struggled with the arrangements in previous years.

‘I am sorry if I was short with you, Sir, and I apologise if my letter sounded ill. It was written in haste and I fear it may have sounded angrier than I actually was.’

Darcy looked at her and she smiled, her eyes concerned for the worry she had caused him.

‘Oh, Elizabeth, I am a fool.’ He hid his head in his hands and gently laughed, relief coursed through him. How idiotic for him to think that his wife would declare their marriage a failure after one disagreement.

‘Yes, Fitzwilliam Darcy, you are a fool... I understand why you must think that confrontation of any kind is a bad thing – our courtship, for what it was, played off that confrontation though and our differences as well as our similarities are what make us such a good match. I would not have agreed to your second proposal if I had not seen how wonderful our life together could be.’ She gently kissed his temples and placed her hand on his cheek, stroking the roughness of his sideburn until it was smooth.  ‘My family are not as refined as yours – our arguments are all out in the open, my parents argue in front of their children and their servants, it was a natural thing to the residents of our home to see them bicker and then resolve their differences. I understand that I am a Darcy now, and that there are all these unspoken rules that I must follow, and I am fully prepared to learn all of these to be as good a Mistress of this house as I can be, and to be a good wife to you…’

Elizabeth looked at him, she wanted him to understand, he loved her face – her warm, caring, beautiful face -  he knew that she was a long way away from her family, in both miles and manner, and he did understand now. He pulled her into him and felt her body fall into his, from comfort and relief, and then she pushed him away.

‘You reek! Please go and bathe…before you stink out the whole house with your stench!’

He grinned – partly to cover his mortification, but partly because he was so happy to have someone who knew him well enough to tell him he stank with such candour. He got up, kissing her on the forehead as he did.

‘No, you are seriously vile. Have you rolled in manure? Please. Go and wash, I implore you!’

Darcy practically ran to his dressing room, where his valet Brown had already lit the fire and heated the water.

 

When Darcy returned to the library, now smelling of soap and cologne, Elizabeth was drawing out a map on a piece of parchment – which was more difficult that she had obviously anticipated. The paper was curling up at the corners and ink had splashed onto her favourite yellow gown, he knew this would annoy her and made a mental note to have a replacement made.

‘The problem, you see, is that we have closed off the entire South wing and so we have five bedrooms that are unable to be used, and the new Saloon will not be ready by then – so where do we put everyone? We have over one hundred people who have already confirmed attendance and I have Mrs Reynolds demanding answers!’

His wife looked up at him exasperatedly, her hair falling out of its pins and hanging around her face in tendrils. He smiled at her.

“What do you find so amusing, husband? Is it my horrendous seating plan or the ink on my gown that entertains you so greatly?”

“I think you look rather fetching when you are planning things, dearest wife.” He placed the errant curls behind her ears and kissed her gently, impatiently, on the neck. "I should let you plan things more often..."

“Now Mr Darcy, we don’t have time for any of that nonsense right now. As you know I am a very important lady and have”- His firm kiss on her lips silenced her for a moment, the quill still in her hand. “And what would be your opinion on white soup to start…?”

“Eliza, could this wait until the morning? It is late, and I have been away from you for far too long…”

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed mischievously and teasingly she pushed him back at arm’s length teasingly she loosened his cravat and leaned up to softly kiss behind his ear before nuzzling his nose.

Darcy focused, “alright, we need some supper and then, madame, I am taking you to bed.”

“Promises, promises...” Elizabeth laughed as she turned her attention back to her plans, knowing full well that her husband didn’t remove his gaze from her once.

 

Darcy called for meat, cheese, wine, as well as summoning Georgiana from her study; together the three of them worked out their plan of action for the day, night and morning after of the Ball. He had even agreed to purchase a pineapple, a new found fashionable fruit that was seen to be the height of sophistication, at the request of Georgiana who had heard Caroline Bingley boasting about the pineapple her sister Mrs Hurst had at their house in town. Darcy knew that this Ball would cost him a fortune – it would have to be the most successful, lavish and decadent Lady Anne Ball that Pemberley had ever seen. Darcy knew how unforgiving the highest members of society could be, he had heard the rumours after his marriage – rumours that made him much prefer being here at Pemberley than in London. The disdain amongst his peers for his new wife was palpable, but if Elizabeth could hold her own with Miss Bingley, he was confident that she would be able to brush off the comments of the society ladies with a witty retort and a confident smile. Looking at her now, conversing easily with his sister as if she was her own – smiling and laughing on the settee, drinking wine in their stockinged feet -  he knew that no other woman would make him as happy as she did.  All the ladies of the Ton, excepting a few close friends and family members, were desperate to see Elizabeth fail in her first year of tenure and the Ball would be the event that they would damn her with. And he would be damned if he let them.

Georgiana had already retired for the evening and as they were sitting on the floor in front of the fire, resting their backs against the settee and talking about the food they had planned, events in town and Caroline Bingley's upcoming nuptials, Elizabeth had placed her head on his thigh, entwining her hand in his, and fallen asleep. He ran his fingers down her cheek, his hand over her arm and then pulled a blanket over her protectively. As he looked at the portrait of John William Darcy - the great statesman who married to help restore the family fortune, the man to whom he was indebted to for his fortuitous situation in life and the full family coffers that had helped to fund the restoration of the room he was sitting in - Darcy knew that to have married without love would have been something he would have been unable to bear. He looked down at his sleeping wife, even calling her that now after they had been married nearly seven months was amazing to him - Darcy knew that he was a remarkably, lucky man, and that, whilst marriage was a hard journey, and life would have many obstacles and challenges for him, he was glad that Elizabeth was the one standing by his side


	6. Lizzy

The late spring sunshine was beating through the tin roof of the sports hall. Harriet yawned widely, she was now three quarters of the way through the GCSE Maths paper that she was fully aware she was failing wildly. She was glad that her mum had chosen to send her to Lambton High, a small average comprehensive school with middling exam results and a toadying headteacher. It had been a bit strange to begin with, especially as Mr Evans had made a particular point of making everyone in the school aware of who she was on the day she started, which was doubly strange seeing as it was the first day for most of friends from St David’s Primary too and she didn’t see why she warranted special attention. She tried to focus on the exam…algebra… when would she ever need it? Why would she need it? She rubbed her eyes and looked up at the clock, only fifteen minutes to go and then she would be free.

“Pens down,” projected the invigilator from the front of the hall. There was a collective sigh from her year group and the immediate scraping of chairs along the floor. Funny how sports halls smell during exams, Harriet thought, like feet, desperation and silent farts. She collected her phone from the plastic tray and switched it on, taking a minute to wave to Summer, who rolled her eyes from across the room, tossed her blonde curls and gestured that she would meet her outside. The phone beeped four times: Mum, Mum, Mum, Dad. Oh. Dad? Harriet sent her mum a quick confirmation text and made a mental note to reply to her dad later, before walking down the school corridor and out into the amazing freshness of the May afternoon.

Lizzy pulled up outside Starbucks in the shiny maroon people carrier that she managed to borrow from Donald, the grumbly groundskeeper who lived at the main gatehouse with his wife, Anne. The car was his pride and joy, recently purchased by the estate and emblazoned with ‘Pemberley Estates’ and the shiny gold crest of the Darcy family, which also appeared on t-shirts, mugs and magnets available to purchase from the gift shop. Lizzy’s own ancient Fiat had been slowly deteriorating over the past few months and she was getting tired of it deciding to strand her halfway down the main drive when the engine would fail and refuse to sputter back to life.

She had found herself in trouble during the weekend of Mr Darcy’s Regency Christmas when the car, loaded with Christmas shopping, had stopped dead at the ticketing kiosk, holding up the three coaches and stream of visitors, who were desperate to see local actors re-enact scenes from Pride and Prejudice, whilst eating millefruit biscuits recreated from a recipe that had been found in the archives. Not only had she been firmly told off by Joyce over the walkie talkies as she watched two helpful teenagers from the kiosk and a coach driver move the car out of the way, but she had then had to walk the length of the driveway with handfuls of shopping bags. Conveniently, Harriet’s phone had been on silent that morning and so she did not bother to listen to any of the seventeen irate voicemails left by her mother.

 

It was Harriet that Lizzy was meeting for Starbucks – well, not exactly meeting, but collecting. Lambton didn’t have a McDonalds or a Subway for teenagers to loiter about outside, so they all loitered about inside the converted pub, which capitalised on American tourists, and ordered Frappuccinos whilst taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi.

Summer languished on the large sofa, her legs thrown casually over Harriet’s, whilst Caitlyn sat opposite sucking on the unyielding straw of a decadently syrupy Frappuccino. Harriet munched on a brownie, enjoying each mouthful as she licked the chocolate off her fingers, much to Summer’s disgust.

“My Mum agrees with you anyway,” she admitted, her blonde curls spreading over the couch arm. “But she thinks it’s weird that you have a…a crush on your six time whatever great grandad.”

Caitlin snorted, Harriet’s obsession with Mr Darcy was very strange, especially considering that they were related.

“I don’t have a crush on him,” she retorted adamantly. “I admire him…”

“Yeah, admire his Regency bulge!” Summer blurted, looking at Caitlin as they burst into laughter.

Harriet blushed; she didn’t have a crush on Mr Darcy, but she supposed it was a bit weird. He was such an imposing figure at Pemberley that you couldn’t help being a little bit in awe of him, and that stupid oil painting of Colin Firth was in the hallway outside the flat, ‘for storage’ Joyce had said, but it had been there since she started high school.

“Anyway, Mum said that Matthew Macfadyen is the better Darcy, from the looks point of view at least,” Summer continued.

Summer’s Mum loved her daughter being friends with Harriet, was always inviting Lady Elizabeth round for gin and cake under the pretence of organising things for the girls,  and then posting it on Facebook. Aunt Sybil thought she was the worst type of social climber; rather like the Middletons, who she also vehemently disliked.

“My Mum likes Matthew Rhys,” Caitlin chipped in, “she likes how shouty he is.”

“Well,” Harriet began and they both groaned, “that isn’t canon, it didn’t even happen. Denny didn’t die and Wickham was already dead by that point, so the whole thing is invalid. There was enough death at Pemberley without people just making stuff up!” She looked serious again, the other two girls stealing glances at each other. “The argument is between Firth and Macfadyen.”

“You can’t discount Firth because he’s old now,” Summer said, “he wasn’t old then, and they did actually film it at Pemberley and not bloody Chatsworth.”

“I like Chatsworth,” Caitlin stated a little unsurely, and was immediately glared at by both Summer and Harriet. “What? They have a really good shop… and, y’know…”

“Traitor!”

The rivalry between the two great families of Derbyshire had been ongoing for centuries, when previous Dukes had become embroiled in a dispute over the red deer herd, and it had been the ultimate betrayal when Chatsworth had been chosen twice over Pemberley itself to portray the great Darcy estate.

“Shush,” Harriet said firmly, “okay, so we’re going with Firth then?”

“Shouldn’t we wait and see what Benn Williams is like before we make any final decisions?” Caitlyn looked at them both, out of all of the actors she liked him the best, especially seeing as they could probably meet him in real life.

“Ugh,” Summer shuddered. “He’s old enough to be your dad, Cat, don’t be so grim.”

Summer had already decided that Colin Firth’s wet-shirted Darcy was going to win, she just needed to convince everyone else.

“So, Harry, we’re decided on Firth for the final, yeah?”

“Wait!” Caitlyn exclaimed, as if she had been stuck with a pin, “what about the Zombies Darcy? He counts too!”

“Fuck off!” Even Summer knew that Zombies Darcy didn’t even count, regardless of how good with a sword he was.

Harriet clocked the maroon people carrier pull up outside, “mum’s here, better go.”

She said goodbye to Summer and Caitlyn with a multitude of hugs, even though they would be sending each other snapchats all the way home and meeting in town the following morning, and climbed into the car, passing Lizzy the grande skinny latte that acted as payment for the journey home. The trouble with living on an estate that wasn’t serviced by public transport was that it was very hard to catch a bus home, and even though Harriet was increasingly enterprising about making her own way back to the house, there were times when she had to rely upon her mum’s good nature, or her guilty conscience, depending on what day it was.

“How did it go?” Lizzy asked, as she slurped her coffee and manhandled the gears.

“Maths, innit,” Harriet sighed. “It just has to be a C.”

“It just has to be a C?” One eyebrow was raised, and Harriet groaned.

“Yes, Mum! I only need a C for AS Levels, you know this.” She harrumphed loudly and focused her attention on the constantly flashing phone in her hand, before turning the radio station over even though it was the middle of Women’s Hour.

They passed over the bridge and jolted over the cattlegrid, before settling onto the long, grand sweep of the drive. The flag was flying on top of The Cage, signalling it was open, and a few straggling visitors were slowly making their way down from the hunting lodge, the bright colours of their jackets and wellies popping against the burnished hues of the ancient deer park. 

“Did you hear from your Dad today?” 

“Yes,” Harriet confirmed offhandedly as she tapped on the screen of her phone. “Pre-production starts next week, so he’s driving up on Friday.”

Lizzy had always been civil to Harriet’s father for the sake of their daughter, but she did not want him walking in and out of the house as if he owned the place. Harriet noticed the change in her mum’s mood immediately and, somewhat wisely, changed the radio station back to Women’s Hour. They pulled up at the North Front gate, parking the car in Donald’s signposted space where he would collect it later. Walking silently together under the gateway and around the circular driveway, Harriet nudged herself into Lizzy’s shoulder and the two Darcy ladies hurried inside for a Netflix binge and a microwave Biryani.


	7. PAST

Lizzy Darcy and Matthew Wickham had grown up together at Pemberley. Closer in age to each other than to the very grown-up twelve-year-old Maggie, they had made natural playmates and could often be found running up and down the halls or up the hill to the Cage, looking for conkers underneath the massive horse chestnut tree that stood next to it. Maggie and Matthew lived with their mum, Jean, who had acted as Winston’s secretary for years before she accidentally fell in love with the kindly steward John Wickham, and promptly married him. Unfortunately, he had dropped down dead two days before his fortieth birthday and it fell upon his wife to raise her young daughter and baby son in the small apartment above the stable block that they had once shared.

Matthew was always a little bit in awe of Lizzy; he wanted to tell her that she was squishy in all the right places, but he knew enough of women to know that squishy was not the right word to use. Her head was covered in a mass of curls, sometimes she straightened them, but she couldn’t be bothered with it for the most part, and they hung slightly frizzy and unbrushed around her face. When she smiled, two dimples appeared on her cheeks, and she had a soft, pink mouth that curved upwards, even when she was angry. In fact, you could only tell she was angry when she frowned, and her eyes turned from a soft grey to a dark, melting lead, she would usually punch you too, he thought. The problem was that Lizzy didn’t really notice him like that until after they had left high school and gone to separate colleges – where he suddenly became cool, bringing back giggling girls to the house in his Ford Fiesta, parading them around the lawn right under her nose and whispering sweet nothings to them in the Orangery.

Lizzy watched with green eyed envy filled with something she thought was love for the boy who lived next door, powerless to do anything except watch and wave. He would saunter about with his baggy jeans and his Ben Sherman shirts, casually slouching with his beaten-up converse, music playing and an illicit cigarette hanging from his mouth. There was a burst of freckles that ran across his nose when it was summer, and they remained there until the last leaves fell from the trees. His eyes were brown, but she knew that really they were a beautiful chocolate eclipse, surrounded by a circle of gold, like a Jaffa cake gone wrong, she laughed in her head as she tried to remember what he smelled like close up. His hair had grown out from his standard short back and sides, despite his mother’s protestations, and there was the heavy undergrowth of facial hair covering his chin. He still hadn’t got the chip on his tooth fixed, gained playing rugby in year ten, and he was still wearing the same coat.

Despite all the changes, some traditions remained, and he would still come over on the last Sunday of the month to watch films, cranking old classics projected onto the large walls of the dining room, running with a whirr through her grandad’s projector. They would still snuggle up together under old, scratchy blankets, squashed up on the balding yellow velvet sofa as Winston snored in his big armchair that they dragged through from the drawing room. She would nestle under the crook of his arm as she had always done; whilst he would smell the subtly expensive perfume she wore and try to not think about kissing her.

Exams came and went; university applications were completed and offers accepted. Lizzy, under the guidance of her grandfather, was off to Manchester to study Law, and Matthew was off to London to study Film. Whilst Winston didn’t think it a valid enough subject to warrant a bachelor’s degree, he offered to support John Wickham’s son through university out of kindness to the man’s widow. It was only four weeks into the new semester when Matthew Wickham met a wonderfully rich, bohemian girl called Cara Dalhousie, who smelled like patchouli and had read the Bhagavad Gita; he promptly moved into her squat in Bermondsey and grew out his hair. Lizzy moved to Manchester, driven by Winston who insisted on helping pack boxes of things into the little yellow Fiat that he had bought her for passing her A-Levels. She made fast friends with the group of girls in her halls of residence and they were frequent visitors back to the house in Derbyshire. Occasionally she would look for the red Fiesta outside the stables, her heart twitchy with anticipation until she noticed its absence.

Lizzy was walking out of a lecture on European Law when she realised that her grandfather had shuffled off this mortal coil. She had twelve missed calls from her dad, the man who never called anybody; there was no need to return the call as she knew the reason for it. She got the bus back to Didsbury, her head full of sadness and confusion, before driving the thirty-eight miles back to Pemberley. Hugh was there already, his brown eyes teary eyed and sad. He pulled his eldest daughter into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her head and commenting on how skinny she had become.  His wife, Carol, was sitting on the shabby drawing room couch holding tightly onto Imogen, whose podgy toddler limbs poked out from her expensive red woollen coat.  Lizzy felt light-headed. It was all so vivid and yet surreal, as if she was having an out of body experience. She could feel the heat of the fire burning against the cold of her face, see the angry face of James II glaring at her from his portrait, she stumbled backwards.  The last thing she heard was the booming voice of her brother, and the clatter of the tea tray before she passed out and landed on the threadbare Victorian chenille rug with a thud. Her great-grandmother’s teacups fell to the ground; slivers of porcelain disappearing forever into the cracks between the heavy floorboards.

She awoke in her bedroom hidden away in the Elizabethan part of the house, the sheets were heavy and warm, and she could feel the smouldering warmth of the fire. She smelled something very familiar that made her open her eyes; wearing his regular aftershave and with his hair suitably shorn, Matthew was watching her intently from his seat next to her bed. He looked tired and she smiled, before she remembered the events of the day as if they were a dream, the pain and the sadness washing over her like a brutal, unforgiving wave that wouldn’t let her come up for air. He held her hand tightly and nodded with understanding before the tears came for both of them. Climbing into the bed with her, he held her close that night until she slept, and he was there in the morning when she woke up; the sadness of the situation hitting her harder this time, a heavy punch to the gut that left her breathless and weeping. He continued to hold her until there were no more tears left.

About a decade earlier, Hugh and his siblings had agreed with their father that the house should be bequeathed to the Historical House Society, or similar, to be preserved for the nation. The house, as much as it was loved and cherished by them, was too expensive for one family to support and none of them had the time or business acumen to become particularly adept at estate management.  Hugh would primarily inherit the titles, the Grosvenor Square penthouse, and the villa in Cap Ferrat, whereas his brother, Jeremy, was quite happy to remain at Longbourn; their sister, Julia, who was never happy, preferred a financial settlement over property and was awarded it. There was one thing that Winston Darcy had been adamant about and which had been specifically noted in his will; written by him and assuredly watertight was that there must always be a Darcy in residence at Pemberley, and a family apartment made available as a condition of the transfer. 

It was decided that it would be easier for everyone concerned if the mantle of Mistress of Pemberley passed to Lizzy. She was at the start of her second year at university in Manchester, but every weekend had found herself travelling up and down the motorway, sorting out staff and belongings and arranging for her own personal possessions to be moved from her relatively small, cosy room with the four-poster bed, and up into the cold and echoey makeshift apartment on the top floor. The Society did their best to accommodate this young lady, who had taken the administration of the staff onto her own head – ensuring that Staughton, Winston’s driver and butler, and Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, received generous pensions and cottages on the estate as detailed in codicils in her grandfather’s will. Lizzy also petitioned the society to give Winston’s secretary a job on the new staff and was successful; she didn’t know anyone who was as knowledgeable about Pemberley as Maggie Wickham was, her family history as intertwined with the great house as Lizzy’s own.

Three months after the death of her grandad, Lizzy had finally packed up all her belongings from the room that the new guidebook referred to as ‘The Knights Bedroom”; Lizzy wasn’t sure what the new custodians would think of the blu-tac marks on the 17th century wooden panelling near her bed, where posters of Liam Gallagher and his sneering brother had once hung, and she was fairly confident that the distinctly modern splodge on the floor near the fireplace was nail glue from a manicure set she had bought from Superdrug. Good luck removing that, she thought. She glanced her fingers over the familiar nooks and crannies of the figures on her four-poster bed, it had been placed in nearly every position in the room and she did not know how much damage she might have done to the delicate frame as she shoved it back and forth over the misaligned floorboards.

When she had first moved to Pemberley, Winston had read her a story and tucked her in under heavily embroidered sheets, trying to make the room feel homely and suitable for the five-year-old mass of curls who was now under his guardianship. Those first few weeks without her Mum had been hard – she remembered the salty tears falling into the stiff cotton pillowcases, and the warm, bracing hug of Winston, who had felt scratchy but who had stroked her chin until she fell into sleep.

Everything with be alright, he had said, everything would always be alright in the end.

Getting to sleep in the creaky old room was made a lot easier when Maggie had told her one night whilst they were tucked up together, that the bed had been made by a distant ancestor for a queen of England, who had slept in this very room, and her grandad made the room a lot more child friendly by wrapping the posts in brightly coloured Christmas lights, much to the chagrin of Mrs Reynolds, who could see how the hot lights were damaging the finish of the antique wood. 

She couldn’t bear to stay in the house when the stocktakers had gone through every room cataloguing each item, however small, and had thrown herself out into the grounds, walking for miles around the estate, taking herself to the very edge of Darcy land at all four corners before standing in the Lantern and waiting for the rain, watching the house – somehow no longer her home – from a distance until night fell. After the inventory had been taken, she had been allowed to walk around the house and choose items that had been tagged NHI – No Historical Importance – and she had picked a few pieces of furniture that she loved, including the drawing room couch and Winston’s Gladstone chair which had lived in the State Bedroom. She also pillaged boxes of books from the library that were destined for an auction, piling them up at the top of the grand staircase before shuffling them along the landing and through the generously proportioned door, which would now always remain locked.  

A month after they handed over the keys to the house, she watched sadly from the north corridor as her grandfather’s writing bureau was slowly inched from his study at the front of the house. It was due to feature in an Austen exhibition in London – the marquetery top inlayed with the initials of Fitzwilliam Darcy. A few days later, the walnut encased pianoforte was removed from the saloon to take part in the same exhibition. The instrument was well looked after and tuned twice a year to exacting standards by a gentleman from Fauntleroy and Bosch, where the item had originally been purchased from.  Historically she was fully aware of its importance – the famous gift to Georgiana from her older brother - but for Lizzy personally it would always be the piano she had learned to play on, taught by Aunt Sybil who had rapped her knuckles with a ruler when she dared to hit the wrong note.

There had been many happy times shared around the pianoforte; carols at Christmas where her own soprano tones were complemented by Winston’s deep baritone as they sang ‘It Came Upon The Midnight Clear’ after returning from Mass at the church in Lambton. The next morning Sybil would play, squinting through her jam-jar glasses until it was time for the Queen’s speech, and then they would all stand to attention in the grandeur of the gilded room, wearing brightly-coloured party hats and lots of layers to fend off the cold. 

All over the house there was a feeling of loss, as if Pemberley itself was mourning the passing of its master. Winston had been the Duke of Derbyshire since he was seventeen years old – his tenure had seen massive changes in the house and now his final goodbye meant that even though a Darcy would still live here, she would be the lady of the manor in name only, all the decisions and choices now made by nameless managers in the London head offices of the HHS.  There was also the question of University, now having to live in Derbyshire she had given up her place in the house she shared with her friends and resigned herself to the daily commute that would dominate her final year of study. She had studied Law as Winston himself, as Darcys back to the 1840s had done, following his wishes. She was good at it, but she found that she had no great love for it, wishing every day that she had applied for the comfortable English teaching degree at the college by the seaside instead. She had passed her first year with flying colours but didn’t know if she wanted to continue, even though she made stubborn plans in her own head to finish. 

Lizzy realised that she would never again wake up in this bedroom or look out of this window first thing in the morning or last thing at night. She stood still for a moment, noticing how ornate the mouldings were, running her finger along the tall stone fireplace that still stood taller that she was; she was trying to remember it all, embroidered each little aspect into her memory, because she knew that from today things would never be the same again. There was a tremendous sense of loss that swept over her; first Matthew, then Grandad and now her home, but more than that – her own sense of identity; she was no-longer Elizabeth Darcy, student – now she was ‘Lady Elizabeth’, living at Pemberley as the Darcy in residence and playing a role she never auditioned for.

There was a knock on the door and she opened it to reveal a young man with red hair and a friendly face, wearing the purple t-shirt of the HHS. His shiny new name badge said ‘Steven’ and he gestured to her remaining box and picked it up, a little groan passing his lips as he realised that he had severely underestimated the weight of it. She followed him to where sparse staff quarters and one of the older unused bedrooms had been transformed into a quirky, misshapen, three bedroomed flat with a view of the lake. She sat down on the battered old red couch, feeling the familiar velvety texture of the fabric beneath her fingertips, trying to grasp to some semblance of reality. It felt like she was living in a dream, days passing by in a hazy reality, and before she knew it Winston had been gone for four months.

It was the end, and everything was not alright.

 

Matthew Wickham, currently languishing around the stable block apartment, found himself constantly berated by his sister and mother for his lack of housekeeping skills during the long stretch of the summer holidays. Escaping the four walls on a balmy night, he found himself walking up to the Lantern to have a cheeky cigarette and a can of lager. It was a bit of a trek through the grounds, but he knew that the view was amazing from the top of the hill where you could see all the way down to Pemberley itself. During hunting season, the Dukes would sit breakfasting in the dining room – if they could see the Lantern then it would be a good day for the sport, and the building had acted as a beacon and a hideaway for generations. He climbed up the hill from the East Drive, hauling himself up the steep incline, avoiding the occasional deer and taking a look back at the tower blocks of Manchester standing proud in the distant landscape.

He wasn’t looking for Lizzy, but he found her anyway. She was sitting in the window, her legs swinging, a Marlboro Light balancing off her lip as she drank beer from a plastic pint glass. They talked and reminisced and drank, falling back into their childhood friendship as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Eventually, overwhelmed with grief and remembering, they made mad, frantic love in the folly at the far end of the garden.

“What about your girlfriend…” she asked, as he pulled her t-shirt over her head and kissed her neck.

“I don’t have a girlfriend...” he assured her, failing to add that he now had a fiancée.

Six weeks later, Elizabeth Darcy was throwing up her breakfast with alarming regularity and Matthew Wickham had disappeared into the ether.


	8. Lizzy

Lizzy walked into the party taking place in her backyard, she was wearing a black top, bright red cardigan and an amazing printed vintage skirt; with her mother’s Darcy Pearls pendant adorning her neck and her mass of curls tied up with a relatively fashionable printed scarf, she felt that she would be able to hold her own in this party full of off-duty starlets and C-list actors. She was unsure who exactly had managed to convince Joyce to hang fairy lights from the gallery windows on each side, but she was glad they had. The soft, twinkling lights illuminated the inner courtyard and the whole house felt alive with people – she loved it when Pemberley was like this, it made her think of Cecily Darcy’s infamous Edwardian house parties and how alive and throbbing the house would have been filled with people, music pouring out of every window and every room ablaze with illumination; but for now she would have to content herself with a pre-filming get together that the production company was throwing for the actors, crew, HHS senior staff and, of course, the Darcy family.

Her brother Charlie was already here, braying in the corner with his terrible public-school hoo-ha and a group of his friends from the City, who were all double-barrelled Tories;  Aunty Julia, who had been in and out of rehab so many times she herself had lost count, was chatting animatedly to a stocky member of crew, and the current Duchess, her stepmum Carol, who was loving being feted by the assistant producer, Phil. He was calling her ‘Your Grace’ at every possible opportunity and she was giggling with flirtatious glee. Maggie was on duty tonight, answering questions about the house to some random members of the Press who had been invited for advance publicity, Lizzy waved to her and she waved back subtly, whilst explaining something to an excited Japanese journalist. Tottering across the checkerboard tiles of the courtyard in a pair of super-high heels that she had indulgently ordered the night before, she made her way to the bar. If she was going to be forced to deal with her stepmother, she would need copious amounts of the free alcohol on offer.

Benn Williams skulked in the corner, drinking his San Pellegrino and looking nothing like Mr Darcy. He had recently grown a beard for a three-week run of Our Country’s Good at the West Yorkshire Playhouse, where he had been wracked with nerves each night and required two shots of vodka before he could even step foot onstage; he hadn’t shaved it off yet as he discovered it gave him a certain level of anonymity that he found comforting. It was, he thought, pretty method of him to be playing Mr Darcy and standing around looking disagreeable at a party and, even though this wasn’t any part of his preparation technique, this was what he was going to tell any journalists if they asked. Benn would rather have been drinking alone in the comfort of his hotel room than spending another minute making conversation with over-familiar crew members who he vaguely remembered, or the twenty-year-old actresses who he was acutely aware should be playing his daughters rather than his love interests. He walked over to the buffet, hoping for a cheese scone or a bit of cake, but was handed a small plate with chicken and some cucumber. “We can’t have a flabby Darcy,” he had been told, and the studio had shipped black boxes full of pre-prepared meals, and an aggressive personal trainer to his hotel to hone his Dad-Bod into something that looked more androgynously sexy in breeches.

“You should try a cheese scone,” came a small voice.

He looked over and saw a face he didn’t immediately recognise, but one which looked strangely familiar. “I beg your pardon,” he said in a stately manner, whilst thinking that this Darcy thing was going to be easier than he thought.

“The cheese scones? They are really good.”

As if to prove a point, she picked up the savoury, sliced it in half, smeared it with chutney and placed half on his plate. He looked at it, with a look that he knew was dripping with disdain, then slowly removed it and placed it back on the table.

“I can’t eat that.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound like he said it with a sneer, but that’s how it came out and whilst he immediately regretted it, he knew full well that the sneer was now across his face. She looked at him with a quizzical expression on her face, as if she couldn’t quite understand what his problem was.   

“Harriet,” another voice chastised. “Leave Mr Williams alone, he’s probably not allowed any carbs for the next three months!”

He glanced over to see a face he instantly recognised, Lady Elizabeth Darcy, dressed as what he assumed was some kind of homeless Frida Kahlo tribute – the aristocracy were always a bit barmy, born with silver spoons in the mouths and sticks up their arses. He knew about Lady Liz from Matthew, not a woman to get on the wrong side of. He recognised the girl now as little Harriet, Matthew’s daughter – he hadn’t seen her for a while, the last time was about three years ago, if he could remember correctly. His memory was getting worse. 

“Harriet,” he smiled genially. “Of course, I remember you now. You were on set with your dad for Wuthering Heights.”

 “Yes! That was me.” Her face lit up and he swore she did a little dance at the recognition.

“Yes,” he grinned, returning the smile. “Did we take some selfies?”

“Yes! Yes, we did… and then I tagged you in them and you commented on my Instagram!”

“That’s right,” he agreed “I remember.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he had a social media person who posted and tweeted on everything on his behalf, and that he didn’t even know the login for his Instagram account, let alone how to comment on anything.

“I knew you would… I’m working on set tomorrow, so I will see you then… Benn.”

Harriet shot her mother a look tinged with smugness, and then walked off towards a gaggle of girls who he guessed were her friends. They all grouped together before turning around in unison to look at him, giggling before walking off under the main gate to the forecourt.

“I am sorry about that,” Lady Elizabeth said apologetically. “I’m Lizzy, by the way,” she said, holding out her hand, which he shook reluctantly.

“Yes,” he said. “I know who you are.”

“I did ask her not to approach you, but she was helping out the catering team in the house this morning and feels somewhat personally responsible for the cheesiness of the scones.”

She looked up at him, noticing how tall he was – much taller than she though he would have been, and broad, but in a way that she could imagine him picking her up and carrying her over a threshold, not that she wanted him to carry her over a threshold, it was an observation, nothing more.  He smelled of a familiar cologne that she couldn’t quite place, and freshly washed clothes, and there was a hint of minty freshness about him. His sideburns were puffy and blonder than she thought they would be, and his beard was definitely not a good look, even though she could tell he had really tried with it.  She pondered asking him for a picture to show Deb but decided that it would be very uncool. He sipped his water and she drank her ‘Mr Collins’ – a cocktail thought up by the production team and consisting of rhubarb gin, lime and soda – through a straw.

Benn could feel her looking at him as they stood in an awkward silence, and he tried to avoid accidentally catching her eye by looking out into the crowd. He gazed out onto the small gathering grouped around the courtyard; over by the bar was Franklin Hughes, an incredibly posh and well-spoken actor who had only recently graduated from RADA and would be taking the role of Bingley – they had screen-tested together well and the rehearsals in London had helped him to build up a rapport with the man who was fifteen years his junior. Matthew Wickham was sitting on the steps that led up to the front door of the house, chatting to Harriet and her three friends who looked too excited to listen to anything he had to say; their eyes darting around the courtyard searching for anyone even slightly more exciting.

Jenny Graves, the Elizabeth to his Darcy, was surrounded by her on-screen sisters, including Nancy Mertons, who was playing Jane and had just finished a successful run in an off-off-Broadway play, and taking the part of Lydia was Tamsin McLeod, recently expunged from a BBC hospital drama in a rather gruesome and macabre death involving an escalator. Since watching it the thought of the incredibly long escalator at the Angel tube station made his stomach turn a little and he avoided it as much as possible. They were dancing and doing shots wearing tight jeans paired with big hair, swaying along to the music and calling out whenever someone they vaguely recognised walked past.

Matthew had shipped the whole Bennet family to a house in Cornwall for two weeks straight after casting; he wanted them to bond – the overfamiliarity of the core cast being a key to the aesthetic he was trying to achieve. This was the first time Benn had met them; his part in rehearsals with the Bennets was played by a stand-in, allowing him to be only shipped in at the last minute; Moira, the production manager, who knew what was going on in his personal life thought that that she was doing him a favour, but the truth was that it only heightened his loneliness. He missed out on the camaraderie of the film set, the early bonding as you rehearsed with each other, the friendships that were formed, the inside jokes – he knew full well that he was walking into this production as a complete outsider.

“You were right,” he said, finally deciding on what to say. “I’m on a carb ban until my trousers fit.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think that you would look rather dapper in a pair of breeches just as you are.” She grinned at him, before taking a massive bite of the chutneyed and abandoned cheese scone. “And I can tell that you are very jealous of me and my scone right now,” she joked, pieces of the pastry tumbling from her hand and falling to the paving stones.

He gave her a once-over, “I think most people could benefit from a carb ban every once in a while, don’t you?” He sipped on his Pellegrino, “cleansing…”

She pretended to ignore what she guessed was a sly dig but pulled down the back of her dress self-consciously anyway. There was another moment of awkward silence, as they both watched the party cranking to life, the laughter and giggles of

“Do you enjoy working on period dramas?” She asked, as she sucked up the last remnants of gin through the end of the pink straw.

He nodded never averting his gaze from the crowd, then stiffly said, “Occasionally”.

“You were rather good as Heathcliff, I must admit.”

He nodded again, saying nothing.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing what you do with Fitzwilliam, he is six times great-grandfather so I…”

 “Lady Elizabeth,” he said somewhat contemptibly as he looked at her as if she was the offensive cheese scone. “I know full well who Fitzwilliam Darcy is and his relationship to you.”  

Leaving his plate on the table he walked away, just as Matthew started his speech and called for the presence of Mr Darcy to the sound of cheers and claps from the party guests.  He didn’t respond to everyone’s shouts to come up on stage, but his absence was soon forgotten after a drunken gaffer shouted, ‘his diet pills haven given him the shits – he’s on the bog.” Lizzy didn’t understand why he felt the need to act so very rudely, but she did see the almost unnoticeable shard of sadness that momentarily crossed his face as he retreated, and she began to think that maybe he was simply misunderstood.

“Lizzy, how the devil are you, old girl?” Charlie grabbed her in his embrace and gave her the biggest hug, practically lifting her off the tiled floor. “I say, it has been a bloody long time since I have seen you outside of weddings and funerals.”

“I know, I missed you!” She genuinely had. Despite growing up in different parts of the country, they had always kept in touch via letters and phonecalls, then emails and IM, before it became Skype and WhatsApp – Winston had always made sure they visited Charlie on St Andrews Day at Eton, and he always made sure that he gave her the pre-requisite birthday punches that he owed her from the month before. She kept her arm wrapped around him, as they walked over to the bar. “Have you not brought Lydia with you?”

“No, of course not, she is at a retreat in Geneva with Mufty and Portia, and then she is off to Norway for a few weeks.” He swigged at his whiskey, waving at a pointy looking red-haired girl with a sour look on her face.

Charlie handed her a large glass of something pink as they squeezed past some baby-faced ingenues and a few faces she recognised from past productions.

“She will back for a fortnight before the boys are back at school and then we’re all off to the villa to stay with Daddy.” They pushed past people trying to make their way from the bar, “are you and Harry coming too?”

“Yes, of course,” Lizzy laughed, “we’re always there for summer. Idiot.” She rolled her eyes at him, “How’s Imogen been?”

“Back in rehab, not sure what for. Daddy has managed to keep it all out of the press so that’s a relief,” Charlie downed his whiskey. “Promise me you will come to town soon, I want you to come and see the boys. It all would have been so much easier if you had married that chap from the City and moved to town, I could have seen you much more.” He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her cardigan in tight against the cool breeze sneaking through from over the moorlands, and kissed the top of her head. “I miss you, Lizard.”

“Miss you too, Charlie Bear,” she smiled.

Inside the courtyard she could see Matthew talking to Benn Williams, who looked furious and was gesturing in her general direction causing him to look at her somewhat angrily.  Lizzy was astonished at this hostile move, but inside her head she laughed it off. Silly arrogant man, she thought before taking her brother by the hand and returning to the dancing, laughter and singing.

Benn walked out onto the expanse of lawn, how could he feel so claustrophobic in the open air, he didn’t know. He had spent the last half hour hiding in the toilets, splashing water on his face and nearly hyperventilating, before freaking out at Matthew about the annoying Darcy woman who wouldn’t stop talking. He had only wanted to stand there and not speak, but she was so damned persistent. It wasn’t her fault, and he momentarily felt a bit of remorse. There was too much going on in his head to stand around making pointless conversation with people he wouldn’t even be working with.

Six months ago, his wife Madeleine had publicly announced the end of the marriage by moving out of their home in Clapham and moving into the home of her lover in France. She had taken their two girls with her and left him with an empty house and a broken heart. It had been smeared across the tabloids and he had retreated into his shell and his work to try and stop it from hurting. For the most part it was unsuccessful; being away from his children had made him feel self-destructive in the worst possible ways. Most nights he found himself drinking alone, smoking his way through a box of Cuban cigars, and ordering his favourite takeout foods to make himself feel better or at least feel something.

Benn sat on a patch of grass at the top of some steps, closed his eyes and wished that he was anywhere but here; wished that he had never agreed to his agent’s pleas to take on this iconic role, had only wanted it because Madeleine loved Jane Austen, had only accepted it because he would only be away from home for three weeks and always within a reasonable travelling distance from his children. In the balmy air he could smell the faint aroma of roses; the noise of the PA had now been replaced by tinny karaoke and he tried to distract himself deciphering the song being sung, but all he could think of was roses. His wife loves roses, but he found that familiar smell cloying in his throat, making it harder to breath and compounding his loss.  

Madeleine Tennant was ‘England’s Sweetheart’.  Loved by the nation she had grown up in the public eye, her parents were British film royalty and she was a regular face on television long before she had left school. He remembered how on their first date, when he was in panto in Preston and she had just become a series regular on Haringey Place, he had bought her a massive bunch of what she called ‘tissue paper roses’, not realising that they were out of season and ridiculously expensive. They had married not long after, cementing their family with two daughters in quick succession and house they could barely afford in one of the more affluent suburbs. He was thirty-five when he found out he had won the part of Steven Malis – the breakout role that saw him catapulted into stardom and award ceremonies; Praise to the Skies earned him an Oscar nomination and a BAFTA, but it had started the downward spiral that led to the ending of his marriage

For the most part Madeleine had seemed immune to her husband’s newfound fame, celebrating his success and happily holding his hand at award ceremonies, but Benn sensed that she was unhappy when his own fame eclipsed her own, he knew his wife well enough to know that she was silently upset when, at the premiere of her own project, the photographers demanded his attention rather than hers, could see the flickers of rejection dancing across her face. At first, he would hold her hand tighter as they stood together before the attack of flashbulbs, would shoot her reassuring glances as journalists would demand his attention from the crowd, or hold her tight as handlers tried to move her inside.

He knew that as his fame grew she felt insecure about their relationship – little tremors of anxiety – and when the rumours had circulated about his friendships with various on-screen love interests, or when Star Goss had published pictures of her on holiday in Spain calling her old and frumpy, he could feel the palpable tension every time he walked through the front door. Filming took him away from home for longer and longer periods of time, culminating in a disastrous month where he missed Anya’s birthday and his eighth wedding anniversary.

Madeleine grew tired of the excuses and the rumours and the sadness. She was tired of being tired. During the long three months when Benn was away in Ontario filming, forgetting to FaceTime them and feeling so far away, Antoine was a friendly face. He had been someone she knew in a previous life, and he paid attention to her, laughed with her, listened. She found that in the empty hours in the middle of the night, he was stuck in her mind as waited for a reply to the message she sent to Canada hours and hours ago. When the reply never arrived, she thought about the future, and it wasn’t Benn who was standing next to her; it was the loving, carefree Frenchman who made her feel like her cellophane had been taken off and she was all new and shiny and fresh out of the box.

Walking into the cold, empty kitchen she sat for a moment at the gigantic table made from reclaimed railway sleepers and legs made from scaffolding that they had bought in Camden; he had said it would be ruined by the children within days and he had been right. She ran her finger over the gouge in the wood that Esther had created slicing pizza, which they had then all eaten watching a movie before falling asleep on the couch. There had been so much love, so much laughter and she felt her stomach turn as she realised that none of this would ever matter in the same way again, that all the happy memories they had shared would be somehow tainted by her betrayal.

Her head ached under the weight of a decision she had already made, the choice that she had actively made a month ago when she started to slowly disconnect her life from his. She now realised that sometimes the tiny rifts in relationships can develop into vast, gaping canyons – deep, scarring and entrenched across our hearts – unsurmountable and impossible to fill.  It was as if the dainty platinum circle was aware, fighting the inevitable, embedding itself into her skin so she had to twist and fight to remove it. She sealed her wedding ring in an envelope and placed it on the kitchen counter.

Two days before he arrived home, she left.


	9. Elizabeth: 1811

The early morning sunrise was cresting over the summit of Cage Hill as the last carriages of guests pulled away from the front of Pemberley. Elizabeth stood at the window, the air was still and cold – her houseguests were all still tucked away in their chambers and she was sure that a flurry of maids were currently busy at work preparing food for breaking the fast later that day. She must take the time to thank those who had worked tirelessly long hours to ensure that the Lady Anne’s Ball had been an unwarranted success.

Darcy had been up since dawn the day before, helping her prepare, supervising and giving his firm instructions to Staughton. Mr and Mrs Bennett had arrived the night before and it was obvious to none but Elizabeth that his attentiveness to preparation was merely to allow him to spend as little time as possible with her relations. She had situated them in the Blue Bedroom, which was as far away from her own as it could be without seeming impolite. Her mother had been immediately enamoured with the new embroidered bedlinen and bold turquoise decoration, and Elizabeth could see that she was making mental notes with which to brag about to Mrs Philips on her return to Meryton.

The food, despite her concerns, had been well received and the Pineapple – complete with its own pewter stand – had been the talk of the night. Emily Warner, who lived on the neighbouring estate, had even asked if she would be able to borrow it for her own event the following month. Elizabeth had agreed, of course, and this had started what to all intents and purposes was a waiting list for the loan of the pineapple.

“I say, Lizzy, that wretched fruit has a more eventful social life than we do – why I think it will be dining with four and twenty families before the evening is over,” Darcy had whispered to her conspiratorially. She had given him a gentle nudge in the side before returning to sit with her mother, who was complaining most heartily to all that despite living some distance away, she too would like to procure the fruit for a dinner she was hosting.

“Dearest Mama, it is your birthday soon, maybe we could buy you a pineapple as a gift and send it down to Longbourn by carriage,” Elizabeth said with humour. 

Darcy, still standing within earshot, guffawed loudly, but managed to disguise this breach of manners with a well-timed cough.

“Oh, Mrs Darcy…my dearest Lizzy, I knew that you would put your riches to good use to guarantee the happiness of your mama. You are such a good girl… my daughter,” she said to her audience. “Mistress of Pemberley and all you can see here today!” She waited for the collection of middle-aged women to look impressed. “Well, go on, Lizzy, stand up..”

Elizabeth rose to her feet and did a polite, if mortifying, curtsey for the assembled ladies before quickly making her excuses. She made a beeline for her husband, who grinned knowingly and passed her a glass of wine.

“Dearest, we need to procure a pineapple for my mother.” She took a longer gulp of the wine than was proper in company. “Maybe we can sell some silver to finance it; we don’t need all those plates that have been in the family for centuries, do we?”

Grinning at her, he said with much humour, “no, no, not at all… Useless heirlooms, gathering dust, creating more work for Staughton. Best rid of it, I’d say.” He paused for moment, “do you have any idea how much that wretched thing cost? We can’t even eat it, apparently.” He was frowning now, the furrow in his brow creasing, “does it have to be a pineapple? Can we not placate her with a nectarine or maybe some exotic apples?”

“Dearest, I am very much hoping that my mother will continue to imbibe wine at her current rate resulting in her recollections of the evening being less than accurate.”

The Darcys stood for a moment, watching the result of their months of planning coming to fruition, Fitzwilliam reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a tight little squeeze. She looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear. He moved his hand to her waist and pulled her in close before gently kissing one of her coiffured curls. Two younger girls, who Elizabeth recognised as friends of Georgiana’s and newly out this season, tottered past and twittered at this public display of affection, they were resplendent in their brightly coloured and be-feathered turbans, the rustle of satin and stiff new gowns following them.

The whole room was filled with people and music and colour, muted green and reds with the odd dazzling blue or gold. The six-hour candles, recommended by Mrs Reynolds, were flickering away happily around the room and everywhere there was gaiety and merriment. Darcy spotted his sister over by the pianoforte where she was happily engaged in conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Georgiana had always been a little shy, and whilst his own reserve presented itself as a haughty arrogance, hers was overwhelming and she had always sought to retreat rather than attempt to fight it. It was here that the presence of Elizabeth had benefited Georgiana the most, she was blossoming into a confident young woman who knew her own mind and her own heart.

Darcy discovered that he was now bullied and teased by the two women, who thought nothing of mocking his majestic moods and he found that he could laugh at himself and his own pomposity. In public his stately manner could manifest itself and he would skirt about the edge of assemblies and balls, not wanting to involve himself. Elizabeth and Georgiana would work between themselves to crack his veneer and, luckily for him they were very good at it. This was how, on the night of his wife’s social success, Fitzwilliam Darcy found himself more than slightly drunk just before midnight and dancing a country reel with his mother in law.

Elizabeth spotted her father walking to join them from the other side of the banqueting hall and waved him over. The stress of living with two of the silliest girls in England, or three if you counted Mrs Bennet, was taking its toll on Mr Bennet and he was looking forward to spending the next few days having conversations that did not involve talk of soldiers, ribbons or sermons. As much as it pained him to not have her close, he could see how adored his Lizzy was here in Derbyshire and how effortlessly she had adapted to be the mistress of a great estate.

“Elizabeth, what is all this I hear of your mother being gifted an expensive tropical fruit from Mrs Darcy herself!” He gladly took a glass of wine from Darcy and with a sardonic smile sighed, “How will I ever afford the upkeep of such a precious delicacy?”

Elizabeth missed the playful banter and easy wit of her father, the company of her mother being a fair price to pay to be back in his presence even if just for a few nights.

“What about a painting of a pineapple? Or maybe an embroidered pineapple… I’m sure you could turn your hand to embroidering a pineapple for your mother, Lizzy.”

“You know as well as I that any embroidery from me would not be a gift that one would want to receive,” she laughed.

“I can testify to that,” Darcy murmured, shooting a knowing glance at his wife.

“I am very sorry, Papa,” she stated with a faux solemnity. “But I am afraid we have committed to the purchase. Besides, I think we all know quite well that Mama has probably already sent a letter by post to notify everyone in Meryton. Would you like to be the one who tells her that you have declined the gift?” she teased, arching her eyebrow.

Mr Bennet looked at Darcy, who looked at his wife, who looked at her Papa. He sighed and finished his wine.

“I’ll be in the library,” he said. “If you see your mother, please don’t tell her where I am.”

He kissed his daughter on the cheek and shook the hand of the host before retiring into the family’s private rooms.

Darcy held Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it gently. She glanced up at him for a moment and beamed, before turning her attention to the dancing, which she watched with glee. Darcy thought his wife was the most beautiful in the room that evening. She was positively resplendent in a blue satin gown with a gold brocade trim, it was the most perfectly cut gown that she had even worn, excepting her wedding dress, and he must thank his Aunt for recommending such an adept and talented modiste. Her hair had been placed in curls with jewelled flower clips holding them in place and the look was reminiscent of a Grecian goddess, her long neck elegant and almost regal. He wished that he could take this image and preserve it forever, keep it locked next to his heart to remember this vision of beauty. Darcy had taken the liberty of requesting his mother’s diamond and sapphire necklace from their vault at the bank in Threadneedle Street. Elizabeth did not need precious stones, she never desired them, and she certainly did not expect them, but this was a special event and warranted something grand. He had thought the necklace old fashioned and had asked her if she would like it remodelled, but she had declared it perfect and begged him not to change a thing.

As she stood next to him wearing it, the gems sparkling and glowing in the candlelight, he could see the attention that it drew from the ladies as they walked passed or thanked their hosts for the evening, and he smiled to himself as Mrs Darcy received the recognition she deserved and accepted it graciously. There was something different about her tonight, almost as if she had blossomed overnight into her position of lady of the house. She was so assured, so confident. Elizabeth had received an education befitting that of a gentleman’s daughter, she had not been schooled by a governess in the unspoken and complex rules of the aristocracy and he knew that her composure often belied an underlying anxiety of being unable to stand her ground amongst the ladies of high society. But tonight, she had been formidable – gracious, generous, funny, attentive and completely riveting - and he knew, probably knew better than she did herself, that she had no need to be worried about anything.

Elizabeth watched the dancing and clapped her gloved hands. Observing others gave her time to think, and she was currently thinking that she must have tried too much of the food over the last few weeks as her dress was much tighter than she remembered it being when she went for her final fitting in town with Lady Matlock. But never to mind, she could survive a few more hours of discomfort if it meant that Darcy would continue to keep looking at her like he did. She was looking forward to later, when they could crawl into bed together and stay there until the early afternoon. Darcy and Elizabeth usually kept separate chambers, but the cramped conditions at Pemberley this weekend meant that they were breaking with social protocol and sharing for three nights. It was glorious inconvenience for Elizabeth, who loved waking up with her husband and an even better one for Darcy, who secretly loved playing the ladies maid, helping her remove her attire with all the playfulness of a naughty schoolboy.

The evening passed in a whirlwind of introductions, reunions, laughter and food. Jane and Bingley arrived earlier that day and happily confirmed with their closest friends that they would be expecting a new addition to the family sometime in the autumn. Elizabeth was thrilled for her sister and excited about the prospect of becoming an aunt. Married life suited Jane and this happy event had made Bingley even more decided to relocate from Netherfield and further north. They had found a solid estate called Dunham in Cheshire and planned to move there before the baby was born. The distance between the sisters would now be a lot more manageable with good roads between the two residences. The whole assembly became aware of the news once Mrs Bennet was informed, and no-one had seen a woman happier that evening – although Elizabeth was unsure if this was a result of the baby or Darcy’s pineapple centrepiece. Either way, her mother’s nerves had absconded for one evening and this had made her company a whole lot more pleasurable for all concerned.

Elizabeth watched as the final carriage disappeared around the bend of the driveway. How beautiful her home looked in the early days of Spring, from the front of the house she could see down into the valley below and how the colours of the forest were turning with the seasons. It had been over a year since she had returned to Pemberley, not as a visiting guest, but as the mistress of the house. She had come to love these walls, floors and ceilings as much as she loved the home of her childhood, and the longer she stayed here the more she knew about it. She knew, for instance, that the Long Gallery was over 130ft in length, that the fireplace in the centre of it was constructed for visit by Henry VIII and one of his many wives; she also knew that her husband was secretly measuring to see if he could fit a billiard table in there. It didn’t need to be a secret though, she adored playing the game, despite some gentlemen of her acquaintance frowning upon it, but she was looking forward to the table being installed so she could thoroughly thrash him at this game of strategy and skill.

Elizabeth made her way to her chambers, slowly opening the door so as not to disturb Darcy who had retired to bed at just past four am. The clock in the room chimed to signify that it was now quarter to six, she removed Lady Anne’s necklace and placed it in the chest on her dresser, it was too early, or late, to call for her ladies’ maid, so she lay on the bed to rest, just for a moment.

The house was stirring, and Darcy awoke to see his wife sprawled out on the bed, her hair had become loose in the night and was spread out over the pillow. Still fully clothed, her dress was crumpled. He did not know how she could sleep laced in her stays, but she had had a long day. Leaning over gently, he stroked her face, she stirred a little, turning over so that she was facing him. He adored these early morning moments that they sometimes shared.

“I love you in this colour blue,” Darcy murmured.

Elizabeth awoke, but did not open her eyes. She was hoping that he would go back to sleep and let her rest.

“This blue… it’s beautiful,” he whispered. He must still be drunk, she thought. “Beautiful Eliza Bennet in blue…” he said softly, gently tracing his finger behind her ear and over her décolletage before resting his hand on her waist and tenderly pulling her to him. He kissed her tenderly on the lips, and she responded to his gentle persistence.

“Darcy, the dress is cerulean.” She teased in a gentle murmur. “If you are going to be painfully annoying, at least be accurate about it.”

“I will be accurate about taking you out of this damn dress, for beautiful as it is I would much rather see you out of it.”

Quickly, potently, he kissed his wife with vigour, his hands were all over her body as he attempted to unlace the dress, Elizabeth giggling as his still-tipsy fingers fumbled over the fastening.  “There is no need to mock me, Lizzy, I am a desperate man!” Defeated, he left the lacing and fell back on the bed exasperated.

“There will be plenty of time for that later!” She kissed him firmly so that he knew she meant it, confirming it once more by looking into those dark grey eyes that could captivate her from across a room.

“Also, dear heart, do not forget that you danced with my mother last night,” she giggled, before getting out of bed and walking over the window. The drapes were still closed, but she opened them in a dramatic move that let mid-morning sunlight spill into the room.

“Oh, oh god, I danced a reel.” He placed his head in his hands. “With your mother.” He turned to face her, looking absolutely mortified. “Did Georgiana laugh?”

“She was hysterical, particularly as you forgot the movement more than once,” Elizabeth said. “But I suppose I will forgive you for being such a liability on the dancefloor.” She kissed him on the mouth, “as you are so very good at so many other things.” Darcy attempted to pull his wife towards him, but she pushed him back on the bed, “there will be time for that later!” He fell back onto the soft feather pillows and groaned, pulling the blanket over his head and resolving to never drink again.


	10. Lizzy

The small Italian restaurant in the centre of Lambton had been quieter than it usually was on a Monday, they had the cosy back room to themselves, with its bare brick walls, painted scenes of Tuscany and Sicily, and the red candles half melted around Chianti bottles standing proudly on the red and white checked tablecloths. Maggie poured another glass of wine and called the waiter over to ask for the dessert menu, even though they had been coming here for years and never ordered anything off the menu anyway. Luciano knew the ritual and it was always worth paying extra attention to the girls from the big house, who were generous tippers. He stood behind the bar and opened another bottle of Pinot in anticipation

“So,” she asked casually, “are you ready for a month of filming?”

Lizzy rolled her eyes and ate a mouthful of pasta, slurping down the spaghetti, dropping blobs of sauce onto her top which engrained themselves in the lacy fabric like a bloodstain.

“I’m always ready for a month of hot Hollywood actors and regency romping,” she said, wiping the sauce off herself with the napkin.

“I cannot wait to see Benn Williams in a pair of tight trousers,” Maggie breathed. “Do you think Joyce will organise a meet and greet?”

“I can guarantee it,” Lizzy laughed. “You know how crazy she is for Darcy, we might even have to peel her off the courtyard!” She took a sip of her wine, let the alcoholic warmth of it slip down her throat, then casually the words slipped out, “did you hear about the job?”

Maggie look at Lizzy with a puzzled look on her face, “what do you mean?”

“There are never any surprises at Pemberley, you know that…” she laughed softly.

Nothing was ever a secret at Pemberley, she was pretty sure that everyone knew that Sam, the senior curator, was pregnant before she had even peed on the stick; and she was certain that everyone knew that Maggie was getting ready to fly the nest.

“Austenation will be absolutely bonkers if they don’t offer you whatever you want….”

As much as Lizzy hated the organisation and their complete domination of any vaguely related to do with Austen and her novel, including a whole range of Darcy family portraits that had been sold to them by the HHS, she knew that being there would make Maggie happy. It had been really hard for the last few years, especially after her mum had died and she had been left to pick up the pieces. Even though Lizzy knew that she would miss Maggie ridiculously, she also knew that she was desperate to make the move to the head offices of Austenation, the gatekeepers of everything to do with Jane Austen – it was the holy mecca for Maggie, who was completely wasted at Pemberley in her capacity as Concessions Manager.

“Are you cross?” A look of nervous hesitation passed across her face.

“Why would I be cross?” Lizzy looked at her incredulously, she was absolutely thrilled for Maggie, this was something that she had wanted for so long and now she was finally getting proper recognition from the organisation that she admired so much.

“I feel like I’m abandoning you, and Harriet, and even Joyce… I feel like I’m just walking away.”

“You have to live your own life, Maggie… Pemberley has been around for centuries now and I’m sure it will continue to stay there as long as we keep finding money to fix the roof.”

Maggie smiled at her friend, it was such a relief. She has been so nervous about telling her that she was leaving her job of nearly seventeen years and the home she had lived in all her life to move down south.

“I’m hoping this film will pay for a good wodge of the repairs this winter to be honest, Matthew promised us a great payment, but I’m not sure what they settled on in the end.”

“Aren’t they dealt with by HQ? I didn’t think we had much to do with it at a local level.”

“Technically, Lizzy, you don’t have anything to do with it – you know how annoyed Joyce got when you wrote that letter about volunteer expenses.” Maggie chastised her friend.

“Well, Mary deserved that £15.87 and she just wouldn’t ask for it.”

“Yes, but you have to let Joyce deal with it. That’s what she gets paid for. No wonder she gets so pissed at you.”

Lizzy took a moment to order the mascarpone and figs that hadn’t been on the menu since 2012; Maggie had the brownie and they ordered another bottle of wine, which appeared on the table within seconds.

“Is Matthew okay?”

Maggie deep-sighed and then laughed into her wine, “he’s in the midst of a mid-life crisis, if you call that okay. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but I think Cara might have left him again.” Maggie took a large gulp of the fruity white wine from her glass, and then looked at Lizzy seriously, “are you two still…?”

Lizzy looked at the wise face of her friend, more than a friend – a sister, a mother- this sophisticated, well-spoken woman had held her as she cried over various miscellaneous boys; had taught her how to roller skate down the Long Gallery (and replace the carpets and not get caught); comforted her when she was ill, knew her secrets and her lies. 

“No, Maggie,” she laughed nervously, “no. The only reason that happened last time was because of three bottles of Merlot and misplaced nostalgia. He regresses back to being eighteen when he comes back to Pemberley, you know that.”

“What’s your excuse then?” She smiled quizzically, “you’ve never left.”

 

Lizzy walked up the grand staircase, after sneaking through the Bright Gallery after hours like a shoddy cat burglar. The public areas of the house were all strictly out of bounds once they had closed for the day, unless given permission by one of the management team. Usually she had to wind her way through the corridors and back passages, but tonight she knew the top door was unlocked. She skipped through the Bright Gallery, past the stern portraits of the elderly Darcy matriarchs, their unblinking eyes ever watchful and attentive. The cupboard still wobbled, teetering on a loose floorboard and she scared herself a little as the vase on top rattled and echoed in the quiet night. It was late, and the absurdly bright moon was casting shadows on the wall as she made her way up the gentle turn of the grand staircase. It made her think of the White Lady of Pemberley who supposedly haunted this part of the house, and the ghost stories that Winston had always told her and the gaggle of girls sleeping over in the library, sticking a torch under his chin as they hid under duvets and pillows. The story of the Lady Darcy, who had been pushed to her death by her evil, unfaithful husband, had been a favourite when she was younger; but now it was just horrible to think of the poor woman lying at the bottom of the stairs dying alone.

It would be easy to fall over the low bannister, she thought, as she looked over the edge at the floor below. There was an oriental patterned carpet covering the blemish on the wood now, marking the spot where the woman landed on the hard surface, her skull cracking and the blood pumping out of her onto the floorboards, staining them forever. If she remembered hard enough she could almost hear Winston shouting at her as she tried to slide down from the highest part.

“Now, Miss Lizzy, if you fall it will make a damned awful mess, do you want to have to clean it?”

His voice had deep and blustery, with the clipped tones of a public schoolboy, and if she concentrated hard enough she could drag the memory out from the depths of her mind, wishing above all else that she could hear it again, or see him sitting on his chair, frowning at her from over the rim of an oversized leather tome. The chair was gone now, consigned to another room maybe, and the library, with its rare books and treasures, was locked down and shuttered every night, hidden away behind the grand panelled door.

There was a noise at the top of the stairs that made her jump and poking his head through the door at top of the staircase, looking tanned and expensive, was Matthew Wickham. His manner was gracious, relaxed almost and he padded across the landing in his Ralph Lauren socks, his hand curling around hers as he pulled her up from the step. Lizzy wrapped her arms around him, the familiar shape of him fitting the curve of her body perfectly. He kissed her gently on the cheek before whispering softly in her ear, a frisson of anticipation shooting its way down her spine.

“Did my sister fill you full of Pinot G and send you home, because I never normally receive this kind of welcome.”

“Yes, pretty much,” she giggled. “When did you get here? Was London good?” She walked past him and through the door leading to the flat. “I’m ravenous, fancy some toast?”

“Yeah, we got back about five, Harriet was knackered so I…Lizzy, you’re pissed, aren’t you?” He laughed at her, which made her frown at him as she reached into the kitchen cupboard and grabbed a loaf. He reached into the fridge, passing her the butter.

“Look at this…” he fingered the lace on her top, noticing the spaghetti sauce blotches.  “Canteen medals, not like you, Lizard”

She batted his hand away, but he grabbed it and pulled her close; there was no space between them now, and he moved nearer, his hip touching hers as they leaned against the worktop.

 “Your eyes have always amazing,” he pondered, “I used to think that they were like molten silver…” He raised his hand and ran the back of his hand down the side of her face. “But tonight, they’re like the dark side of the moon.”

“You’re getting good at this.”

“I’ve always been good at it.”

He moved close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath on her cheek and as she turned, she felt her lips graze his for the tiniest of moments. The toast popped in the toaster, and the spell was broken.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr Wickham,” she giggled, starting to butter her toast with a great flourish. “Because I am _not_ Lydia Bennet…I will not fall prey to your wanton acts of seduction.”  He took a bite of her toast, “are you staying tonight?”

He raised his eyebrow and moved behind her, planting a kiss on her neck, “where would I be staying?”

She turned, “you would be staying on the couch.”

“You know full well that I have never stayed on the couch, and I very much doubt that tonight will be an exception,” he shot her a knowing look, before grabbing the last piece of toast from the counter.

Despite her resolve and her promises to herself, Lizzy was fully aware that he would end up crawling into her bed half an hour after she went upstairs, sneaking under the covers, and breaking all of the promises that they made to each other that this would not happen again. But it always did. On long location shoots, visits to see Harriet, random meetings in London when they both happened to be in the capital by chance; and it was as it always had been. Electric, and amazing, and almost perfect, except Matthew had a wife that he would not leave. Lizzy grew tired of waiting for the time when he could be hers, and so she settled for the leftovers of his love, the parts she could have, telling herself that she was happy with that, but she wasn’t, not really. Before their intimacy served to heighten her affection, now all it did was highlight to her what she was missing out on. It was a familiar dance that they had learned together, but it felt as if now all he did was tread on her feet.

“Anyway, I should be having very stern words with you about harassing my actors – you have upset my leading man terribly, you naughty little madame,” he crunched on the toast, “asking him lots of questions and making him feel nervous.”

They looked at each other and then burst out laughing, Matthew was grateful that his years of working with temperamental creatives had enabled him to deal with Benn Williams’ frankly ridiculous tirade a few weeks earlier. The fact that he had managed to do it with a straight face led him to secretly believe that he was a far superior actor to the troubled star of his new film. He had known Benn for a long time now and suspected that his overreaction was more due to his homelife than anything Lizzy could have done.  

“He was being a ridiculous arse, he is much nicer when you get to know him. I promise you.”

“I don’t think I want to get to know him,” she pouted stubbornly. “I’m planning on staying out of his way for the next few weeks.”

“That’s a shame,” he grinned. “You got him so riled up that I am convinced he fancies you.”

“He does not.”

“He does usually wear glasses, so it would make sense.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

They sat together on the couch, watching some terrible reality show involving screaming half naked woman and a lot of inflatables. Instinctively she leaned her head against his chest and he rested his arm around her shoulder.   They had been dancing this familiar dance now for too long, he nuzzled into her neck, kissing the soft curve between her shoulder and ear gently. Matthew could smell the warm ginger and cinnamon perfume lingering on his skin. She had worn this for years now, and the merest hint of it sent him careering back through time; a hundred memories spinning through his head; the smell of home.


	11. Elizabeth: 1811

It was a fine evening when Mrs Bennet was informed by her eldest daughter that she was to become a grandmother. This news had been all she had hoped for in the months since she had seen her two oldest daughters wed. Secretly, she did not think it would be too much longer before Lizzy would be making her own announcement and she was looking forward to the days when she could pronounce the birth of the heir of Pemberley to the captive audience of ladies in Meryton. She was so fortunate to have two daughters so fortuitously wed and Lydia… well, Lydia would be alright, she would make her own way as she always had. The mistress of Longbourn fell back into the warm bed in the turquoise bedroom and congratulated herself on a job well done.

Jane Bingley was first to rise that morning. It had been the same every day for the last few months, up with the crow and vomiting into her chamber pot. She felt guilty, as the poor maid who had taken it away to empty it each morning also visibly retched. The young girl was no older then her sister, Lydia, and yet their lives would have been markedly different. Mrs Wickham was now happily ensconced with a regiment in Newcastle, where she was able to flirt with officers and make a fool of herself with little embarrassment or negative reflection on her family. There was inevitably requests for money, but the older Bennet girls had obliged their younger sister – who was unable to manage a budget or her husband – with occasional gifts from their own purses. The Wickhams were not welcome at Pemberley and, despite the protestations of both Lydia and her mother, an invite to the ball had not been forthcoming.

Likewise, Kitty Bennet was too missing from the Hertfordshire party, lately residing in Brighton with Captain and Mrs Forster, in place of her errant sister. In addition, Darcy had also paid for an acquaintance of Mrs Annesley, who had been Georgiana’s companion, to accompany the party. Trips to the seaside by young women understandably made him nervous and he felt it prudent to take extra precautions.  Kitty had become much more refined in the last year or so, and Elizabeth attributed this to her spending considerable amounts of time away from Longbourn and in the company of Georgiana, who she aspired to be like. It was with great persuasion that Mrs Darcy had convinced her father to allow his next-to-youngest daughter to travel to the seaside town with the regiment, and her sister had been significantly grateful.

Charles Bingley looked at his wife’s pensive face – she was bearing the brunt of this pregnancy in her amicable way, but he knew that for the most part she was putting on a brave show of it. For the last few months, she had been sicker than he expected, and he hoped that the nausea would soon abate so that she could enjoy her bloom. Jane caught glimpse of his worried face as she turned around on the bed and then settled back into the warmth of the sheets, gently kissing his brow to allay any worries. He returned her embrace, and the Bingleys settled back into their slumber, aware that the residents of Pemberley would probably not be rising until noon.

Mrs Reynolds was always a flurry of nerves in the week leading up to the Lady Anne’s Ball; it was a massive undertaking, even for an experienced woman such as herself, and that morning she congratulated herself with a small glass of port from Staughton’s cupboard and prepared to thank her staff for a job well done. Mrs Darcy had looked beautiful and acted with all the grace and decorum of a lady with twice her breeding. Of course, the Darcy’s housekeeper had been aware months before the official engagement announcement that her master had a predilection for this Hertfordshire Miss. Her impromptu visit a few summers earlier had sparked something in Fitzwilliam Darcy that Mrs Reynolds had not seen before, and she had wondered how long it would take before Elizabeth Bennet returned to Pemberley as his wife. Now as the evening of the Lady Anne’s Ball had passed without setback or drama, Mrs Reynolds helped herself to a leftover biscuit and rested her feet for a while whilst her kitchen staff busied themselves with preparing breakfast for the waking guests.

Elizabeth was frustrated. Her dress fit most ill, even with lacing, it looked wrong. She was annoyed as the daring crimson morning dress that she had chosen for the post-ball lunch had been her absolute favourite item this season, and she had been looking forward to wearing it since the first appointment with her dressmaker in town. Money was no-longer an object for Elizabeth, as the mistress of Pemberley it was expected that she would have the best gowns in the finest fabrics, but ever the country gentleman’s daughter, she had stuck close to her budget and used fabric that she had found in her new home, hidden away in the crates and trunks that Darcy had brought back from the continent after his Grand Tour. The sheer, shimmery fabric was interwoven with a thin, delicate gold thread – patterns of diamonds and flowers embroidered into it – it was spectacular, whilst at the same time being understated. She knew that Caroline Bingley would have sneered at her gown, the colour, the fabric, her -  but it did not matter, for she would not be wearing it for the unappreciative glances of society ladies, but the admiring glances full of longing that her husband would direct across the table. Darcy loved her in bold colours, and red was his particular favourite. The trouble was that the gown did not fit – not even slightly. Ellen pulled out the new dress that had arrived last week, a replacement for the one she had spilled ink all over, Darcy would have to settle for his wife in yellow this morning, and if time and guests permitted, she might let him take her out of it this afternoon.

A few of the larger State Rooms were still closed off as Darcy’s elaborate restorations took place, so Elizabeth found herself taking a shortcut down through the servants’ staircase, saying hello to Betsy – one of the younger maids - before crossing the courtyard and entering again through the front door.  As she traipsed across the house, Elizabeth acknowledged to herself that she had been walking a lot less now she lived on the estate. She could not simply march the five miles to Lambton through the endless rolling hills that surrounded her new home, and even though she and Darcy had walked the twelve miles to Kympton a few months back, she had to admit to herself that her lack of exercise, coupled with the vast array of new and delicious foods had probably contributed to her expanding waistline. Never to mind, she would wear the dress soon enough. 

Unbeknownst to her, it would be years before Elizabeth Darcy would wear the red dress that hung in the armoire in her room. Life would intervene in wondrous and horrific ways, and by the time she did wear it, fashions had changed so much that it was deemed terribly old-fashioned by her daughter, who giggled with glee as her mother paraded down the bright gallery, dancing and laughing, in an old red dress with golden embroidery that glittered in the sunlight of a glorious Pemberley summer.

Darcy found his father-in-law in the library that afternoon, sipping on coffee and eating Prince of Wales biscuits left over from the night before. He wondered if it would have been more pleasing to Mr Bennet to place his bed in the library for the duration of his stay as the gentleman was found in here more often than he was found elsewhere.

“Darcy,” uttered Mr Bennet, as he took a bite of his biscuit. “How are you feeling this morning? Sore feet?”

The humour of the situation was not lost on the congenial host, who laughed gently to himself before pouring a cup of coffee and joining his father in law in front of the fire.  “I have been informed by your most amused daughter that I may have filled your wife’s dance card toward the end of the evening.”

“You most certainly did, and most appreciated it was,” Mr Bennet stated as he poured himself another cup of coffee from pot engraved with the intertwined initials of his daughter and her husband. “Why, the problematic issue of taking a wife who is decidedly younger than oneself, is that one often does not wish to dance, whilst one’s spouse does. This can cause a veritable cacophony of dramatics, where a gentleman is forced to choose between a display of nerves or a show of vexation. Indeed, Fitzwilliam, I find that often it is easier to escape the whole situation entirely and leave the dancing to the younger generation.”

Mr Bennet raised his eyebrow at his son-in-law and smiled wryly. Darcy found that it was the exact same mannerism that Elizabeth displayed when she was teasing him, and he was pleased that his relationship with her father had reached a level of intimacy where this could be enjoyed. As much as Darcy had found Mr Bennet’s parenting skills lacking somewhat, he hoped that he would have the same easy-going bond with his own children when the time came, although any Darcy offspring would, unquestionably, be reared with a slightly firmer hand than the Bennet sisters had been.

The Darcys and their visitors enjoyed a long and leisurely afternoon. The gentlemen took to the lake for fishing, whilst the ladies enjoyed a meander around the gardens before Elizabeth and Georgiana took out a phaeton and ponies for a jaunt around the grounds. Jane returned to the drawing room, not wanting to risk the high-speed trip around the park, and her sour-faced sister in law joined her. Miss Caroline Bingley was preparing for her wedding, which was due to take place the following month.

Her betrothed was a noble, if impoverished, Scottish laird, and she would be spending winter in Edinburgh before taking up residence in a remote highland castle. Caroline was apprehensive about the move, she would be so far removed from all of her friends and relations, and whilst she would be elevated to the ranks of Scottish aristocracy and be Lady Caroline Dalhousie, she was not entirely sure that she would be able to persuade Lord Dalhousie to relocate to London on a more permanent basis. Either way, his estate and title held much more prestige for Caroline than she would have ever attained by marrying Fitzwilliam Darcy and being shackled to Derbyshire for the rest of her life. She had done well indeed, and the next time she was at Pemberley she would expect the proper deference due to her rank and the second-best bedroom.

Elizabeth made her excuses at supper that evening and returned to her rooms early. She didn’t know if it was the exertions of the day, the heat of the summer night or the long hours that she had been keeping of late, but she was exhausted and though it was bad form to leave her guests without the presence of their hostess, she knew it would be even worse if she fell asleep in the soup. As she walked through the house, Elizabeth gradually realised the reasons for her ills and thought herself hare-brained indeed. Back in her rooms, the yellow and gold suite that had once belonged to the Lady Anne herself, she unbuttoned her gown and stood to look at herself in the mirror. She noticed the change in her body, a rounding of her hip, a fullness of her bosom – how could she have been so blind, how could she have not realised!

There was a quiet knock on the door, before it opened, and her husband appeared with a slice of pie. “Darcy,” she said warmly, before taking the plate from him. “Did we spend so much on the ball that we no-longer have servants?”

Fitzwilliam chuckled warmly, “well, if the lady of the house refrained from promising pineapples to all and sundry then maybe I could have asked a servant to bring you refreshment.” He pulled her towards him, “although I must admit that visiting your rooms does have additional benefits.” Darcy kissed his wife gently on her neck, breathing in the smell of her. She smelled like soap, and warmth, and home.

“Here, take a bite of your pie – it’s very good, in fact I might even go back to our guests and have some more.”

She laughed at his teasing, and then obliged his request, taking a seat on the chair next to her dressing table. Dressed in her chemise and robe, and with her hair unpinned, she looked positively radiant. He felt a rush of sudden desire for her; wanted to embrace her, kiss her, make love to her in the cotton sheets of the four-poster bed that had been made for Anne Boleyn.

“Darcy,” she started. “I have something to tell you.”

Her face was serious, and a wave of nauseous anxiety passed over him.  “What?” he murmured quietly. She stood up and walked towards him slowly, her gaze never wavering. Her dark brown eyes were looking directly into his, as though she was gazing into his soul.  “Elizabeth, what is wrong?”

She took his hand in her own, and kissed it, before gently placing it on her slightly rounded belly. “We may need to make different plans for these next few months hence.” 

The slow build-up had been worth the exquisite pay-off – Darcy’s face was incredulous, but as he processed the words, the realisation of the news spread all over his face, resting on his lips in the biggest smile. He pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her all over her face, before holding her in front of him, looking down at her belly again, and embracing her. This was the most wonderful news that Fitzwilliam Darcy had ever received in his entire life. He was going to be a father. Daddy. _Papa._ Yes, he would be a Papa. He was going to be all these things to this little miracle of life that they had created between them. The Darcys held each other for a long time that evening, talking, kissing and laughing until the sun emerged over the horizon of The Cage once more.

 


	12. Lizzy

Joyce Hutchinson had taken the job of Senior Curator at Pemberley nearly seventeen years ago shortly after the Historical House Society had acquired it; and she could say with absolute certainty that she loved her job. Growing up reading Jane Austen novels she always got a tingle of excitement reading the paragraphs where her home town was mentioned and when the big house on the hill was described in detail and she longed for a chance to walk where Elizabeth Bennet had walked or sit where Mr Darcy had sat. She was twelve when the Duke of Derbyshire, encouraged by his mother, started opening the house for public visits on a more formal basis, which basically meant that he was now charging fifty pence for entry and there was a small tea-room and a little shop.  She would never forget the smell of the house – history, tradition and scones all mixed into one, along with the merest hint of tobacco and a sprinkling of laughter and hyacinths – she would never be able to describe it accurately, it was as if it was less of a smell and more like a feeling.

Marjorie watched as her daughter, surely the most serious twelve-year-old in existence, took a seat at the small writing desk by the window, looked at how she touched the inlay, carefully read the sign that said this desk had belonged to Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy and had been brought from the house at Longbourn after the death of her father. They shared a scone and pot of tea before walking around the gardens, taking pictures with the instamatic camera that Joyce had received for her birthday the week before. On the way out, she bought herself a thin, papery guidebook written by Sybil Darcy with the last of her birthday money, that night she devoured it page by page in one sitting; pouring over the information about each room, each former resident. By midnight, Joyce was fully in love with Pemberley.  She had visited at least once a week after that; riding the trolley bus from the entrance gates after walking from her home above the grocers’ shop in the centre of Lambton.

She was there so often that when she was sixteen Winston Darcy, who had three children about the same age, offered her a job; she accepted it immediately and spent her summers and half-terms learning the Darcy family history, helping clean tapestries and escorting excited Austen fans around the house. Now she found that she was the Operations Manager of the whole Pemberley estate. It hadn’t been easy. She had worked hard before getting her post, studying part-time for a master’s degree in museum studies whilst working as a curator at Dunham House in Cheshire, raising two children and nursing her mum, who had early onset Alzheimer’s and a tendency to wander off. But she loved it here; Joyce was always firmly of the believe that Pemberley held a special kind of magic and as far as she was concerned, she was the one responsible for making sure it kept hold of as much of it as it could.

Sitting down at her desk in the office at the front of the house - the room that had once been the study of Fitzwilliam Darcy – she heard the clash and clatter outside and she cringed wondering which part of the house the production team had damaged now. Despite all the publicity and extra visitors that would ensue when the film was released, and the injection of cash that they had already received from the production company, she was still having to cut costs across the board to maintain the property at its current level, the huge visitor numbers still not quite enough to fully meet all of the requirements of a huge estate; she was even covering for her Senior Curator, who was on maternity leave, to save a few extra pounds. Extra damage was all she needed today; she got up, swigged her cup of tea, and made her way outside with an angry, pinched look on her face, her walkie-talkie blaring away at her hip.

*

Lizzy clambered out of the minibus and thanked Steve profusely for the lift before grabbing her bag and jacket before run-walking as well as she could in heels. She tottered past the small group of paparazzo who had gathered to try and get shots of Tamsin McLeod with no make-up on, or Benn Williams looking sad and depressed since his pretty wife left him; none of them deemed her of any importance, apart from Harold – who must have been eighty by now- who shouted ‘Lady Liz’ and took what could only be called a ‘pity pap’ as she did her most gracious smile before hurrying on her way.

Lizzy was determined that one day she would not be late for work, the small practice of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones in Lambton was only ten minutes away from the estate by bus, but it was arduous when carrying everything that she needed for the day. Blundering through the door, she nearly knocked over Angela’s spider plant with what Harriet called her ‘Law Bag’ – a huge old leather satchel that used to be Winston’s and still had a faint whiff of cigars and the British Empire about it.

“Bloody hell, Lizbot, you look a bit flustered this morning,” shouted Harris Jones from the large desk at the back of the office. “Stick the kettle on, will you?”

She sighed and threw her bag down on the cluttered desk that was piled with books and papers; the satchel slipped and sent a pile of buff folders ticker taping to the ground. For all she was disorganised on her desk, Lizzy was organised in her head, but it did drive Deb, a feisty Geordie with fifteen years of paralegal experience and a sharp tongue, to distraction – especially when her own desk was laid out with such a perfect symmetry that it nearly bordered on obsessional.

“Liz is not putting the kettle on, Harris!” She yelled down the corridor outside the office they shared. “If you want a bloody coffee, you can make it yourself!” She shut the office door behind her. “Arsehole.”

“You do remember that he is your boss, right?” Lizzy reminded, switching her computer on, “and, like, my boss and the man who owns the firm?”

 “He needs to remember that he is perfectly capable of making his own drink! He needs to get up off his arse and do it,” she said, obviously irritated. “Don’t worry, I got us both a caramel latte from Starbucks, my treat.”

Lizzy slouched down in her office chair and began picking up the files off the floor, she had been working on a complicated inheritance case involving multiple heirs across five countries and she was hoping for a resolution before the end of the summer. Probate had not been something she had longed to do when she completed her degree and dragged herself through the LPC, but it seemed apt at the time. She had, after all, helped her Uncle – Lord Jeremy Darcy QC - wrangle some of the finer points of her grandad’s will, but however much she tried to gloss over it in her head, it was dull. Even the interesting juicy cases weren’t particularly appealing, or maybe she had just been doing it for too long – nearly twelve years of dealing with the recently dead was always guaranteed to put a dampener on the working day.

Deb peered over the monitor with a cheeky grin, “what happened at your star-studded party on Saturday, any shenanigans that I should know about. Did they have that prosecco with the gold leaf in it?”

Lizzy, still facing her monitor, swivelled around on her office chair and raised her eyebrow. Deb caught the look and knew full well that something exciting had happened at Pemberley; Lizzy didn’t really venture out to events often, preferring the quiet solitude of wandering through the park after the gates had closed for the night, or spending her evenings half writing novels that she never finished. However, when she did go out, there was always a story, always something wondrous and exciting.

“What did you _do_?” she said excitedly, emphasising the words.

Lizzy rolled her eyes. “Nothing!”

“Groped by a grip?” Deb raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“Sod off,” she sighed. “If you are going to joke then I don’t even think you deserve to know.”

“Erm, you spent the evening snapchatting with your new bestie Jenny Graves, and snogged Philip Thomson?” Deb wasn’t in the mood for guessing games this morning. Both of her girls had driven her halfway up the wall on the way to school and she turned back to her screen, taking a big gulp of the much-needed coffee.

“Well no… but I did get some selfies with Franklin Hughes, and I did sing Dancing Queen with Mariella Jones,” she said nonchalantly. “Oh, and I met Benn Williams…is that’s exciting enough for you.”

Deb spat out her latte all over her desk, droplets of Starbucks dribbling down the wall and her new pink file folders from Paperchase.

“Are you jokin’? _The_ Benn Williams? But I thought you said he was only coming for a few days.”

“Did I? Oh I dunno, it’s not a big deal though, is it?” Deb shot her a look of despair that she recognised all too well. “Anyway, it’s of no matter…” she stated firmly. “He basically said I needed to go on a diet and then started grassing me up to bloody Matthew.” Reaching into her bag she pulled out a paper takeaway bag, “I did manage to bring you some cake though, and some little bottles of the prosecco with the gold leaf in. Although, please don’t ask me what I had to do to get them.” She handed over the bag and Deb received it with glee, stashing it under her desk for later

“Oh, that bloody Wickham… I can’t believe he’s back over here again – you should get Harris to draw you up a restraining order or something, keep him out of your house… that should cover keeping him out of your pants as well, eh?” She laughed as she started to clean up with a pack of antibacterial wipes she kept in her drawer, “but trust you to have one of the most beautiful men in the world stood right there and he ends up insulting you… what do you even do to them?”

“What?” Lizzy was indignant. “I wasn’t even that bothered about the insult. It was just embarrassing… I was trying to be nice! This is what happens when I’m nice to strange men I meet at parties!”

“Well,” Deb huffed, “regardless of whether he called me fat or not…I would have tried to have had a go on that. You need to start seizing the day, Elizabeth Darcy, or maybe a _dick_ –  maybe you should start with one of those.”

“I seize plenty of them!”

“You do not,” Deb huffed indignantly. “You seize _one_ , that doesn’t count…especially not when it’s the same one you have been grabbing for the last ten years.”

“Deborah O’Mara!”

“What? It’s true!”

“I think you’ll find I never _grab_ anything,” she put on her poshest voice. “I firmly grip!”

Deb snorted into her coffee again, setting her off into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Lizzy laughed louder than a woman dealing with death probably should, Deb turned the radio up and they danced on their chairs to her Abba playlist for the rest of the morning, much to the annoyance of Harris, whose shouts down the corridor were promptly ignored as usual.

*

Matthew watched as the dolly grip, Trevor, dropped the track onto the floor and he knew – just knew – that Joyce would be on her way out to ensure that there were no issues. A tree had been accidentally damaged a few days earlier when they had taken some shots with the drone – dramatically sweeping over the peaks and following the carriage with Elizabeth and the Gardiners up the driveway as they made their way to Mr Darcy’s house – he loved the way these shots had looked when he watched the rushes, even though the operator, Simon, had fudged the landing and sent it crashing down into the massive old tree near the summit of The Cage. It hadn’t done anything really – more damage was caused to the drone than the tree - but as this was ‘Mr Darcy’s Conker Tree’, the fuss made had been excessive and the financial reparation disproportionate.

There had been an article on the Daily Mirror website about how the production team were not respecting the history of the house and again how US funded films were denigrating the cultural heritage of Britain. The tabloids always forgot to mention how they ploughed millions of pounds back into the houses they used for locations, and the upsurge in tourism in the areas of filming. Matthew knew that his decision to film at Pemberley had been a costly one – that he could have filmed at numerous other locations around the country and achieved a similar result, but he loved being back in his hometown – returning as the local boy done good – and it was comforting to be back under a familiar sky, feeling the ground beneath his feet and the shadow of the sandstone house on his face.

And then there was Lizzy. There was always Lizzy.  



	13. Elizabeth 1811

The last month of the year was passing in a flurry of excitement and activity, with Mr, Mrs and Miss Darcy eagerly anticipating playing host to their greatly extended family. This was Elizabeth’s second Christmas as Mrs Darcy, the first spent away in the Lake country in a blissful honeymoon state, where the newlyweds had little regard for any festivities apart from each other. However, this year was different, and Darcy was determined to make Elizabeth’s Christmas at Pemberley a most joyful occasion, especially as the birth of their first child was imminent. For Georgiana this would be her own first Christmas spent in the embrace of family, and she was excited to spend time with people her own age, as well as those that she truly loved. 

The Bennets, including Kitty and Mary, who had recently become engaged to a well-spoken, well-read pastor from Kent, were to arrive on the twentieth, with the Bingleys arriving a few days later. Charles and Jane had spent the last few months busy with introducing their new daughter to relatives far and wide, and everyone who met the strawberry-blonde haired babe declared her as beautiful as her mother and as affable as her father. Jane was enjoying motherhood and could not think of a time when her days had been better spent, Lydia wrote to her second eldest sister to say that she had never seen Mrs Bingley look so well and it made Elizabeth ache for the arrival of her favourite sister.  The Darcys were yet to meet little Charlotte Bingley and, despite letters being sent and received almost daily, Elizabeth and Darcy were both eager to meet their new niece in the flesh.

Fitzwilliam was attending to some business at his desk in the Stag Parlour. He had taken it upon himself to supervise the preparations for the Christmas feast, as he did not want to place any undue strain on his wife. He had spent most of the last eight months fruitlessly trying to convince her to rest, which had forced Elizabeth to call Dr Jeffries who confirmed that walking, and lots of it, was good exercise for the mother-to-be and would also help with an easy birth. Elizabeth did not like to be still, he found.

“Mrs Darcy,” he enquired as he watched her marching down the courtyard steps with an easel. “Where on earth are you going? Pray let Thomas or Owens take that for you…” He tried to take the structure and the accompanying paintbox from her but found that she resisted with a strength he had not witnessed before.

“Mr Darcy,” she scolded. “I am not an invalid, there is no requirement to treat me as such.”

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, as the under-butler came scurrying over to take the offending equipment. “I do not suggest that, I merely ask that you exercise caution due to your _condition_.”

Mrs Darcy studied the face of her husband most carefully and decided that she ought to take heed of his worries. She too was apprehensive as the babe in her belly grew larger and, although she tried to deny it to herself, she was impeded by it daily.

“I understand that, Fitzwilliam, but surely I am able to manage a short walk up Cage Hill to take in the bracing air; if you insist I will allow Owens to carry the easel, but _you_ must not worry as much.”

Darcy looked down at his wife, she stood a head height shorter than him and later, when they were safely ensconced in the privacy of their rooms, he would pull her into his arms and the shape of her would fit perfectly into him; the babe a burgeoning wonder between them. But for now, under the gaze of their servants, he would look at her knowingly, a smile playing on his lips.

“Wife of mine, you will surely by the death of me…”

“Maybe,” said she. “But what a blessed life we would have had.”

She turned on her heel, the swish of cotton and muslin as she swept across the courtyard, the feathers on her bonnet blowing gently in the breeze as Owens struggled to keep up.

*

 “Mr Darcy, Sir, would you like to try the millefruit biscuits before we box them up?”

Mrs Reynolds gestured at the decadent, fruit jewelled biscuits that she was holding on the tray in front of him.  He could smell cinnamon and cloves, the rich, sweetened smell taking him immediately back to childhood. He remembered vividly sitting in this same room as a small boy, cuddled up on his mother’s lap as she read stories to him in her gentle, melodic voice, stroking his dark brown curls until he fell asleep sated, content and safe. 

“They were your mother’s favourite, if I remember…”

“Yes,” he nodded.  “Yes, they were.”

Mrs Reynolds studied the gentleman before her, she had known him since he was four years old and knew that he felt the loss of his mother most keenly during this season.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Mr Darcy,” she said hesitantly. “But, I understand why you are nervous about the next few weeks.”

Darcy looked up at the woman who had cared for him in those dark days after his mother’s death and gestured for her to sit, which she did before continuing.

“Sir,” she uttered softly. “What happened with your mother was very rare, and very quick. There was nothing that could have been done that your father did not do, he would have moved heaven if he could have brought her back.”

“Mrs Reynolds, I am…” he started before biting his lip and rethinking. “I am aware that childbirth is a risky, yet necessary event.” Darcy’s statement tried to disguise his inexperience, his only knowledge taken from the day that Georgiana had been born. He had been twelve years old and the sounds and cries from his mother’s chambers had terrified him. He had gained a sister that day, but his dearest Mamma was gone.

Mrs Reynolds looked her master in the eye. “I cannot promise you that everything will be alright with this birth, Mr Darcy, but the mistress is strong, and you have ensured that she has received the best care.” She paused for moment, trying to make him look to the future, rather than remember the past.  “What I can assure you is our new young master or mistress will be so spoiled by the whole of Pemberley, as we are all of us so eager to have children in the house again.”

She tentatively placed her hand on his knee, he covered it in his own and held it for a moment. It was a comfort. Darcy was unable to explain his underlying anguish to Elizabeth, nor was he able to disguise it from her, which meant that she had believed him to be in a foul mood for the past few months. He could not explain to her that he was filled with the insurmountable dread that in the act of bringing their child into the world, she would be taken out of it

“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds,” he said quietly. “Your words have been much appreciated.”

“You’re welcome, Mr Darcy,” her voice was reassuring and as she stood, she comfortingly placed her hand on his shoulder. “Now, I think it’s time for tea.”

Elizabeth was sitting in the drawing room after lunch, listening to her remarkably accomplished sister practice for the Pemberley tradition of carol singing on Christmas Eve. She had been watching the preparations all day and was exhausted at the observations. Greenery and foliage had been being prepared in the courtyard to be brought in on the twenty-fourth, whilst the smells of spiced fruits and sweet delicacies hung in the air, the drawing room had been dressed in holly, ivy and mistletoe, and all around there was a feeling of merriment and festivity. Pemberley was getting ready to welcome guests and even though she was cumbersome with child, Elizabeth was just as excited.

“Lizzy, would you like to join me in a duet? It will sound better if you play with me,” Georgiana stated boldly.

“Georgie, you know as well as I that I will play the wrong notes and then try to cover them up,” Lizzy grinned, as she walked over the pianoforte to look through the sheet music. “When one has four sisters it is a rare thing indeed to be able to practice as much as one would wish.”

“If I had many sisters as you, Elizabeth, then I would never have practiced at all! There is something very lonely about being the only child in a house such as this,” Georgiana paused reflectively. “You must promise to have a whole host of little Fitzwilliams to fill these rooms with laughter.”

“I think I should probably concentrate my efforts on this one first before making any plans for further additions.” She placed her hand on her belly, which was now large enough to prevent her from getting into the bath without assistance or fastening her own boots.

Georgina observed her, hesitantly questioning “can I touch it? Is that odd…can I ask that or am I being terribly rude?” Her brow creased in the same way that Darcy’s did, Elizabeth noticed. Surprising how two people could be so similar and different at the same time.

“No, of course it’s not odd – it’s perfectly normal, in fact,” Elizabeth reassured the younger woman, taking her hand in her own and laying her palm flat on the most prominent part of the baby bump, “if we press here very gently, I think we will disturb him and he may say hello.”

Almost on cue, the youngest Darcy responded from inside the womb with a firm kick. Georgiana pulled her hand back, shocked by the gentle force. “Oh my! That was so strange! Elizabeth, I am all astonishment that you even manage to walk about with such a commotion going on in your insides.”

Elizabeth laughed at Georgiana’s shocked face and embraced her gently. It had been wonderful to spend the last few weeks in her company, and she was looking forward with eager anticipation at the months to come.

 

The snow fell on Christmas morning, coating the grounds with a fine dusting of white powder. Downstairs the Pemberley servants were preparing a feast for their guests – they would have their respite tomorrow when Mr and Mrs Darcy would present them with the boxes for St Stephens Day and, for the more senior members of staff, a half day holiday. This was not a commonplace occurrence, especially amongst domestic staff in larger houses, but Fitzwilliam Darcy prided himself on rewarding hard work and he saw to it that everyone could enjoy the festivities of the season, not just his own family and friends. 

He awoke to find Elizabeth standing by the window, they were now sharing the bed in her rooms more often than not, and he delighted on seeing her first thing in the morning. The heavy drapes, which had been hung in preparation for her lying in, had been opened slightly and he could see the bright, winter sunshine glinting through. He watched her for moment; rounded and beautiful, she meant everything in the world to him, but he was tormented by the innate fear that he was somehow not deserving of lasting happiness, and it lingered away inside his sub-conscious. She stood for a moment, obviously aching with the weight of her pregnancy, and he rose quickly to stand beside her. The room was chilly, it must be early as the fires had not yet been lit, her skin was cold to touch, and he enveloped her in his embrace. He didn’t know if he was trying to warm her up or if he was holding onto her as tightly as he would allow himself, scared that she might slip away. Elizabeth sensed the tension in him and, turning around to face him, kissed him gently on the nose. He closed his eyes, somehow scared to open them in case she had gone.  She took his hand and stroked the back of his knuckles gently, before intertwining her fingers in his. His hands were much larger than hers, and she always felt delicate when he took her hand in his as he had done now. He held her hand firmly, as if the slightest move to relinquish his hold would cause him to lose her forever. Elizabeth knew that he was scared about the birth, she was scared too and her talk to Jane had done nothing to alleviate this. His brow furrowed, and he was quiet and apprehensive.

She studied his face for a moment, Fitzwilliam Darcy was a lot of things: a master, a landlord, a husband, a brother – well respected and well liked, he held the livelihoods of hundreds of people in his hands. For a young man not yet thirty years old, it was a massive undertaking, and one that she understood took its toll on him both physically and mentally. When people heard of Mr Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire, and his ten thousand a year, they instantly were of the understanding that here was a wealthy gentleman who had so great a fortune that there could be nothing else able to trouble him. She remembered with some unease that on their first acquaintance she too had those similar thoughts. However, her husband was all too human, his fears and worries were very real and as he stood before her, she wanted him to know honestly and wholeheartedly that whatever his fears were, he did not have to face them alone.

 “I know that you are apprehensive about the birth of our child. I know that you are worried that the same fate will befall me as it did your mother.” He looked up at her quickly, had Mrs Reynolds betrayed his confidence, surely not. “I spoke to Georgiana, she is very perceptive, you know, you should give her more credit for her ability to read people. She can read you like a book, perhaps more so than I can myself.”

Darcy walked over to the window, threw open the curtains and looked out onto the south front of the house, outside he saw two of the younger maids playing in the snow, before they were quickly shooed back inside by one of the under-butlers. The garden was still once more, and the feeling of panic started to overwhelm him.

“I know you miss your mother, and I know that this pregnancy makes you nervous that I will suffer the same fate she did and that our child would struggle without a mother.”

“It would not be about the children…children are resilient, children can overcome such a loss,” he paused for a moment, unsure of how to intonate his feeling. “But how could I live without you?”

Elizabeth looked at Darcy’s pensive face and was filled with an immediate rush of love for this complicated man who she shared her life with. If Darcy had insecurities about their match, then Elizabeth had had them tenfold, as well as the judgment and condescending tones of society ladies who had first assumed that she had trapped Darcy into marriage, and then secondly judged her for the inferiority of her connections, one of the many objections that Darcy had initially pointed out when first asking for her hand.

She had heard these murmurs and whisperings on the evening of her first Lady Anne’s Ball, where she had worn cerulean and sapphires and attempted to charm everyone in the room. Darcy did not hear these affronts and Elizabeth, ever the gracious hostess, did her best to ignore them and prove to the sneering women of their society that they were completely wrong about her. She had worked doubly hard to assume her place as a leader of Derbyshire society and deem herself worthy of their respect in her position as Mrs Darcy of Pemberley. Fitzwilliam never saw her struggles and she made every effort to keep them from him, confiding in Mrs Collins and Jane through lengthy and frequent correspondence. She did not want Darcy to know of the slights that she had faced, knowing as she did that he would fly into a rage and remove them from the country and to the house in Grosvenor Square. After all, she never really did like town.

Turning to Darcy, with his sad grey eyes and his mournful look, she pulled him into her, letting his head rest upon her chest as she stroked his hair and held him close.  “You would live without me, Fitzwilliam, and whilst I would expect a decent level of mourning and sadness, I would not expect you to pine for me for the remainder of your life. You, above all people, need someone to laugh with, pull you out of your moods and remind you that there is always something to be thankful for and enjoy.” She stood up and tried to drag him to his feet, struggling a little with the weight of her belly and the imbalance it caused.

“Anyway, all this worry is for naught,” Elizabeth stated jovially, still tugging on his arm as he playfully resisted.  “I have no mind to die young and leave a tragic footnote in history, and neither should you, for even though I would be able live without you, I would rather not.”

He stood up and engaged her arm in his, a smile returning to his face, all melancholy gone for the moment, and the Darcys began their morning routine, laughing and teasing each other as they did.


	14. Lizzy

‘Mr Darcy’ was sitting on the steps leading up the front door of the house. The main entrance was up a small flight of stone steps, with a cast iron railing on each side before leading into the epic grandeur of the entrance hall that had once formed the medieval banqueting hall. There was a flurry of activity surrounding him as production assistants and crew prepared for the scene, their voices and the noise echoing around the square courtyard at the centre of the house. He had been driven to Pemberley early that morning and sent for a run around the park with Patrick, the persistent and perky coach who had pushed him hard for the last few weeks until his breeches began to fit comfortably, and his six-pack began to re-emerge. Lucy finished styling his hair; Benn was naturally quite light, but the Darcy fandom required dark hair and the night before he had sat in her trailer with dye on his head and a frown on his face; now she was making sure that each lock was Regency ready with curling tongs and pomade. They had worked together for a long time and she could confidently state that she knew every pore on his face.

“I’m glad you shaved the beard off,” she said, brushing out his sideburns, which tended to puff out when he got hot.

“You are?” He questioned, he had thought he looked good with the beard, even buying a beard comb and some expensive oil from Neal’s Yard. “I thought beards were ‘in’ now.” He was sure they were, he had read a ’50 Hottest Beards Right Now’ article in Star Goss and been convinced to take a foray into facial hair.

Lucy looked at him quizzically, the sun was shining from behind casting her bright red hair into a scarlet halo. “You thought it looked good?”

Slightly offended, he said adamantly “Yeah, it did look good!!”

“Who told you this?”

“Erm,” he struggled to think of an example. “A-ha! The Daily Mail! People on Twitter!”

Lucy laughed out loud, her perfectly winged eyeliner creasing as she did. Benn looked at her quite indignantly, he looked totally crestfallen. He had been genuinely very proud of his facial hair.

“It’s not a good beard, not like a hipster beard or one of those lumberjack beards. It’s… well… it’s…” She scrunched up her face, not wanting to say any more.

“Go on,” he pressed.

“It looks a bit pubey.”

Benn looked at her, astonished at her frank defamation of what he personally thought was rather a good beard.

“Pubey, you say?”

He had grown the beard at least four months ago and was now quite concerned that nobody had told him.

“Yes, like full-on seventies bush pubey,” she tried to hold back her laughter. “I’m really sorry that no-one has told you this before. You’re lucky I’m married to your brother because I’m being much kinder than a stranger would be.” She dabbed his nose with a final dab of powder and then released him on his way

After two weeks on location Benn Williams was feeling remarkably upbeat. He didn’t know if it was being out of London, or if it was the positive feedback he had been getting in the papers – Colin Firth and his wet shirt paled in comparison to Benn Williams in his tight trousers, and the few leaked pictures from the Vanquish Productions press office had caused a stir of longing for this new Mr Darcy in the collective psyche of women of a certain age – it had even made a small segment on a BBC East Midlands news, before being picked up by the national press. He liked how quickly he had managed to get back into shape but was grateful that Mr Darcy didn’t require the same physique as some of his more demanding wet-shirted roles. He decided to walk out to the front gate to sign some autographs before filming started, pacing through the entrance porch and out onto the driveway. The new boots were rubbing his heel slightly and he stopped for a moment to adjust them – there was already a sizeable crowd waiting on the front driveway, he smiled broadly and walked out to greet them.

"Please can you sign it to Vicki?" the woman asked, she passed him the pen and a copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Benn nodded, he had been standing here in full Regency wedding gear for the last three hours as they completed publicity shots and did a meet and greet with a few competition winners and the local press. He signed with a flourish, before giving Vicki a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Are you excited about being Mr Darcy?" she smiled at him, the heat rising to her face.

"Well, as excited as one can be about spending the hottest month of the year in a cravat," he shot her the famous smile; the one perfected through years of public appearances and three weeks of painful dental work, and she visibly wilted.

"Can I get a selfie with you and Franklin?"

"Of course," he said, taking the phone and calling Mr Bingley over towards him. "Smile!"

He handed her back her phone and she giggled before returning to her group of friends who all laughed with her before walking off triumphantly. He looked at his co-star and grinned; Franklin had already been christened Bada-Bingley and as he walked off to speak to some more adoring fans, was clearly loving the attention. They had been on set since half six and it was now quarter to four and the scene hadn't even been finished yet. There had been the issues of aeroplanes; the location was under the flight path of Manchester airport and ten takes in a row had been ruined by the sound of Dreamliners ferrying holidaymakers overseas, secondly Jenny could not remember her lines. She only had four and she fluffed them over and over, until he had got up and walked off set, desperate for a drink and a puff on his e-cig. He grabbed a coffee from the catering truck and asked his assistant, Leanne, to grab his bag from his trailer.

He wandered up past the Orangery and onto the Top Lawn, taking a moment to surround himself in a cloud of self-righteous pineapple vapour. It was a long day and all he wanted to do was vanish back to his hotel, FaceTime his girls, put on jogging bottoms, order a surreptitious pizza from room service, and watch the cricket.  Sitting on a bench at the top end of the garden, away from the tourists and the volunteers and all the popular bits that had been on the TV, you couldn’t hear anything apart from the gentle chirrup of birdsong and your own heartbeat. It had become his favourite place to come and sit for a while and he settled back in the warmth of the afternoon sun, closing his eyes and absorbing the rays.

Lizzy was out at the far end of the ravine when she spotted Benn Williams in the distance. She had already made up her mind that she was going to avoid him for the duration of the filming and so far, she had managed it, but she was not going to be chased out of her own garden by this conceited man who thought he was better than her, just because he could read lines that someone else had written and had a reasonably attractive face. She decided to continue with her walk and marched towards where he was sitting, planning to waltz past him and carry on to the rose garden, where the best phone reception was, and she could finish the story she was reading with a piece of cake.

The crunch of gravel underfoot caught Benn’s attention and he opened his eye to see Lady Elizabeth stomping past him, wearing a turquoise dress covered in swans and he was quite sure shoes with bees on them. She didn’t acknowledge him but walked straight past and continued her way. He remembered what he had said to her on his first night here and immediately felt ashamed. She had tried hard with him, and he had dismissed her as annoying, even demanding that Matthew keep her away from him; but at least she had tried – this was the loneliest film set in the world. Apart from Franklin who was fairly obligated to speak to him, he found that the majority of his conversations were with the make-up artists, or the women in the catering trucks, but it was getting to the point where even they tried to avoid his eye as they served him the small portions of food from the black box. Even his assistant was keeping a wide berth. He needed to make amends – he didn’t want her thinking bad things or telling everyone who came to Pemberley that filming was fun, but Benn Williams was an arrogant diva. He didn’t want her to think bad of him, and he didn’t know why.  

“Lady Elizabeth,” he called, walking after her as fast as the stiff boots would allow. He could see that she had heard him, but she continued.

Lizzy stopped. It’s not like she could ignore him when his big stupid voice was booming out across the garden, was it. Okay, she would be polite and vague, she would talk to this silly man and see what he had to say, but if he was rude again then she was fully prepared to punch him. She turned on her heel and found herself face to chest with Mr Darcy.

“Hello, Mr Williams,” she staccatoed, in a voice that was much posher than he remembered. “Can I help you?”

Benn looked at her for a moment, feeling remarkably out of his depth. He had met members of the aristocracy before, he had even dated a minor royal when he was at university, but Lizzy Darcy was something quite different. She didn’t appear to care for her own status, and she seemed to be even less impressed with his.

“I wanted to say sorry,” he blurted out.

“Sorry?”

He had never experienced hostility like this before. Must tread lighter, he thought. He moved towards her, with a smile on his face, his hand outstretched.

“I am sorry for being so awful to you when we first met,” he said apologetically. “You must think I’m a complete arsehole.”

“Yes,” she nodded in agreement, viewing the proffered handshake with contempt, “you are a complete arsehole.”

She turned her back on him and set off in the direction of the rose garden; she was glad that she had worn her bee shoes today as they gave her a little wiggle when she walked, and she was fully aware that Benn Williams was watching her completely dumbfounded. Good, she thought, although she secretly wished she could turn around simply to see the expression on his face.  

The roses were now in full bloom, the flower bomb of scent exploding and drifting over into the tiled pergola where Lizzy was lying. The wood had been warmed by the sunshine and because the gardens had been closed to visitors for the day, she found that she could lie here undisturbed for most of the afternoon. She had tucked her cardigan under her head and was currently engrossed in chapter twenty-three of a Jane Austen fanfiction that had been being drip-fed for the last three months – for all she loved Elizabeth and Darcy, it was always Anne and Captain Wentworth who made her pulse race; always kept her hanging on for the resolution until the final minutes. Even though she had read it so many times, ‘Persuasion’ always made her think that neither Anne nor Frederick would get their happily ever afters. Jane Austen, queen of the slow burn.

“It’s very rude of you to walk off when I am trying to apologise,” the voice was the one she recognised from countless movies trailers and television interviews.

“It was very rude of you to grass me up to your boss when I was trying to be nice,” she said without even looking up from her screen.

Benn deep sighed and she could visibly hear him thinking of something to say.

“Look, Lady Elizabeth, I am really sorry for what I said. It was totally inappropriate, and I was...”

“…A complete arsehole?”

“Yes,” he said resolutely. “A complete fucking arsehole.”

She swung her feet around and sat up so that she could look directly at him. “Look, I understand that you have some weird method crap going on where you feel like you need to act like an arrogant prick to really get into character, and I know you probably think that it’s okay to speak to people like they don’t matter, but you can’t do that.”

“Is this what you think of me then?”

“Have you given any reason at all to think of you any other way,” she smirked, “apart from this half-arsed apology that you seem to think will charm me.”

“Well I can see that I’m wasting my time here.”

“Yes, you are,” she snapped. “Now, if you could please leave me alone, I’m trying to read my book.”

“What are you reading?”

“It’s a new one… It’s called None of Your Business, You Hateful Man.”

She lay back down on the warm bench, lowered her sunglasses and he considered himself dismissed. He glanced at her for a moment, silently shocked a little; he was unaccustomed to not being forgiven immediately. He found, as he walked away, the leather of his boot rubbing painfully against the blistered skin of his heel, that he felt the need to try again. He didn’t like the thought of this snappy woman thinking that he was a complete arsehole, even if he had been; and now he was more than determined to prove her wrong, she would be getting the full brunt of his charm offensive over the next few days whether she liked it or not.  


	15. Elizabeth 1811

The fire had caught just before midnight, silently climbing its way through the entrance hall and up the newly finished grand staircase, catching light to the dried foliage and greenery decorating the banisters, creating a trail of destruction. At the stroke of twelve, Staughton and the other senior male servants ran through the house waking up the residents, leading them to safety and ensuring that all members of the household, regardless of status, were accounted for. Elizabeth and her family watched in their nightgowns as teams of men from all over the estate formed a bucket brigade to put out the fire. Darcy, his face covered in soot, was at the front – trying to control the flames. At just after one am, the fire was out; the scorched remains of a medieval tapestry still smouldering in the early hours of St Stephens Day.

Mrs Reynolds organised for the guests to be moved away to rooms in the west wing of the house, the furthest point away from the scene of the fire, as usual she noticed that Mrs Darcy’s mother was on the verge of hysterics and made arrangements for her to be administered with large amounts of brandy and a sedative. Elizabeth refused to leave Darcy, asking him what she could do to help, where she could put herself to be of most use. Eventually she wrapped herself in a coachman’s jacket to preserve her modesty and positioned herself in the Servants Hall. When her husband was confident that the fire was now out he found her there making cups of tea for the young men who had helped him to fight the flames. He walked directly over to her and, with no regard for decorum, held her close to him, pressed to his heart, in front of anyone who could see, whispering prayers of gratitude that no souls had been lost that day. Darcy was not a particularly religious man, but he decided there and then that God, who had deigned to save all of those most precious to him, was worth thanking indeed.

The next morning, Fitzwilliam decided to open the London townhouse for the coming few months or until the start of the new season, this was primarily for the comfort of Elizabeth and the child whose birth was forthcoming, but also for their guests who would be conveyed to house on Grosvenor Square until the New Year.

“Please reconsider and travel down with us today,” Charles Bingley demanded of his host, as the two men walked around the almost unrecognisable entrance hall.

Darcy shook his head, “that I am afraid I cannot do.” He walked over to the tapestry that had hung there longer than he could remember, it was barely recognisable and as he pulled the remains down from the wall, the impact sent soot and ashes swirling up into the air, causing the two men to cough and splutter.

“Of course, you can,” Bingley said, his recent elevation to the status of father giving him a greater confidence with his standoffish friend. “You are choosing not to because you think your duty is simply to remain here and sort out this mess, when you are fully aware that your duty is to remain with your wife.”

The master of the house chose to ignore Charles and walked through to the foot of the staircase; the yellow and cream wallpaper, which had only recently been hung, was black with only the faintest hint of the pattern remaining, everywhere the acrid smell of burnt wood and canvas hung in the air. Bingley was wrong; his duty as a Darcy was to remain here and ensure that his family would be able to return home as soon as possible, plus there was also the necessary administration and paperwork that he would have to complete. Surveying the damage, he realised that they had been exceptionally lucky, fires like this usually razed houses to the ground, and it had been the quick alarm of his manservants and the fast-acting work of Staughton that had saved Pemberley, and Darcy was profoundly grateful for all that they had done.

Elizabeth travelled down to Derbyshire House the following morning; she had often wondered why the house had been so-named, thinking that it would have been better called Darcy House to save confusing it with the London residence of that other great Derbyshire household, the Cavendishs of Chatsworth where that honourable family, somewhat confusingly to Elizabeth, were titled the Dukes of Devonshire. It was only in whispered conversations with Georgiana that she learned the Darcys had once been titled as the Dukes of Derbyshire, but this had been removed by royal attainder over a hundred years earlier for reasons unbeknownst to the younger lady. The Darcys seemed to have weathered their demotion to the landed gentry admirably, and Elizabeth mused privately on how Aunt De Bourgh would have reacted to enduring the social requirement of addressing the ‘selfish, unfeeling girl’ as ‘your grace’ and deferring to her rank. The image of Lady Catherine’s face alone made her smile to herself as the coach bounced and jolted her over the hills of her adopted county and towards the capital.

 

The journey was proving uncomfortable and had not been something she expected to endure so late in her pregnancy. Dr Jeffries had confirmed that all was well, and she would be fit to travel on the good roads to town. The youngest Darcy confirmed his agreement with kicks and thuds so fierce that Elizabeth was convinced her son was going to be a great sportsman. She hoped that this boisterous babe was a boy, partially due to Darcy’s innate longing for a son and society’s expectation that she provide an heir as soon as possible, but then again they had discussed the possibility of a girl and he was similarly delighted at the prospect of a daughter with fine eyes and an impertinent manner.

They stopped at the Inn at Stamford for refreshment and found themselves waited on most agreeably, despite it being only two days after Christmas. The whole party, glad to remove themselves from the cramped conditions of fine coaches, rested and ate their fill of tasty meats and breads, as well as mulled wine which provided much needed warmth. Elizabeth ensured that each member of her party was suitably reinvigorated, specifically Jane who was caring for baby Charlotte. The child had slept for most of the trip, wrapped up warm against the biting winter wind, and her aunt took time to coddle the baby whilst her mother enjoyed the respite and the chance to stretch her legs. Kitty was most aggrieved to be sharing the coach with Mrs Bennet, who had complained about the cold and inconvenience, whilst at the same time commenting on the fine upholstery and comfortable springs of Mr Darcy’s second best coach, which she was sure cost more to run each year than her husband’s whole income. Mr Bennet decided that for the remainder of the journey he would travel with the Bingleys, much to the vexation of his wife. Charles sent a messenger back to Pemberley to assure Darcy that all was well, but it would be a letter he would not receive.

Feeling somewhat chastised by the words of his friend, Darcy had his head coachman saddle his horse, Hermes, and prepared to ride down to meet his wife. He had left Staughton and his steward, Willis, to ensure that repairs were carried out and the house restored to the best of their ability in the time allowed. This horrible incident had taught Darcy that he was just one person, in a team of slightly over a hundred, who worked tirelessly to ensure that Pemberley continued to thrive and grow. He gave permission for the annual servant’s ball to go ahead on New Year’s Eve in his absence and authorised the distribution of the sum of one pound to be paid to each upper servant and 10 shillings each to be paid to the rest. Staughton, the butler who had been in charge since before Darcy was born, had resisted this, stating that the servants of the house were only doing their duty and that there was no requirement for additional reward outside of their own wages, but Darcy insisted, most adamantly. He knew that, if he had the taste for gambling, he could easily lose that total amount in half an hour on the tables at his club in Bermondsey, but he was aware that this small gift would make a significant difference to the lives of his servants and he wanted to show his utmost appreciation for their efforts. Hermes thundered on over the hills, as Derbyshire passed into Leicestershire, into Northamptonshire, and beyond.

 

Elizabeth retired early, before dinner, causing a level of concern amongst her husband and Jane, who knew it was most unlike her sister to miss out on any fun, especially when in the company of her father, and she took it upon herself to see how she was. Jane gently opened to the door of Elizabeth’s bedroom and saw her sister sitting up, bedclothes thrown back, the stench of vomit in the air.

“Lizzy,” she exclaimed as she hurried towards where her sister sat in obvious discomfort. “What has happened, what is the matter?”

“Jane,” Elizabeth said pitifully, “there is so much pain. So much, I can’t bear it.”

Jane put her arm around her sister, holding her close to her, she was acutely aware of what was happening. Elizabeth’s nightgown was drenched from the waist down, the pallor of her face, the pain radiating through her -  Jane knew, from her own experiences, that the eagerly anticipated Darcy baby was preparing to make an appearance.

“Lizzy, it’s time.”

“No,” she exclaimed. “It is too early, it cannot be…” Her voice took on a wailing tone and she grasped Jane’s hand tightly as the wave of pain came over her again.

“I must call for Fitzwilliam, Lizzy,” she voiced softly, removing her own hand from her sisters and ringing the bell for attendance. “It’s going to be alright, you have ten times the resilience I have, and I managed perfectly well. I found that if you concentrate as the pain washes over you and….” She was unable to finish as Elizabeth screamed out in pain. Ellen knocked on the door and entered as Jane yelled at her to fetch her master. Even though she was concentrating on the wave of pain as advised, Elizabeth took a moment to note that she had never heard her sister yell at anyone before.

 

Darcy was enjoying a game of billiards with Bingley and Mr Bennet when the under-butler advised that this presence was requested upstairs immediately. He ran up the stairs and could hear his wife, obviously in great amounts of distress; it was so reminiscent of the haunting cries of his own mother that he felt immediately nauseous fearing the worst. He paused for a moment before recovering his composure and entering the room.

“Is it now? But, you said February… surely this is too early, is it too early?” he looked pleadingly at Jane for confirmation.

“They say that it is not an exact science…” she reassured. “But for the sake of Lizzy and the baby, you need to call for your doctor or ask the servant girls if they know of a midwife.”

Darcy knew all of this; all of the plans that he had so carefully put in place for the birth to take place at Pemberley – the arrangements with the doctors, acquiring the services of the midwife – all of it for naught, and now the baby was coming, and he had not been able to prepare any of it. Jane sensed Darcy’s trepidation and directed him towards his wife, whilst she hurried down the stairs to seek her husband and the services of a medical professional who would be able to assist. Bingley sent his man out into the cold, dark December night and they waited for help to arrive.

 

Elizabeth looked at her husband, he was holding onto her so tightly, helping her move and breathe and tolerate this immense pain. It was almost as if she was being wrenched in two, and she did not know how she would bear it.

“My dearest love,” he murmured frantically. “What can I do?” His brow creased, and he looked scared half to death.

“Just stay, please. I need you here.”

 

Ellen came in with hot water and clean linens, she placed them next to her master and observed her mistress writhing uncomfortably on the bed. Elizabeth’s maid was a girl of not quite twenty-two, but she had seen this before and she wanted to help. Mrs Darcy was always kind to her – treating her with a great respect and appreciating the work that she did – and Ellen was grateful to have a senior position with the family when most girls her age were working as under maids. Being the oldest of seven in a household that could not afford a doctor, Ellen had seen her share of births and she knew that she could make it easier for her mistress, could even deliver the babe if she needed to.

“Excuse me, Mr Darcy,” she said hesitantly. “Please forgive me if I speak out of turn, but Mrs Darcy needs to stand. It will help.”

 

Darcy nodded; he did not know why he was trusting the advice of a ladies’ maid in the matters of childbirth, but he felt so helpless that any assistance was well-received. They helped Elizabeth to her feet, Darcy supporting the weight of her on his shoulder, her legs buckled again as her body shuddered with the intensity of another contraction and, as she cried out in pain, Ellen could see tears of fear and frustration running down her master’s face.

 

Where was the doctor? The midwife? Where was any help at all? Jane had appeared an age ago to assure them that help was on the way, she had brought water flavoured with orange flowers and calming words, before the cries of her own child had forced her to leave. They had been in this room for what felt like hours now; the yellow walls and heavy drapes felt like they were closing in on him and he felt claustrophobic with panic. He had taken a seat and a shot of brandy as he watched Ellen press cold flannels to Elizabeth’s forehead and whisper words of encouragement. He did not know what was worse; watching his wife suffer so much pain or feeling so terribly helpless because there was naught he could do.  He had no idea what Elizabeth was feeling, but with her hair hanging loose and with beads of sweat dripping from her, she looked completely exhausted. He understood now why men were not usually present during the birth of their offspring; not because of decency, but because this was horrifying – any man subjected to this would surely never want to impregnate his wife ever again and he sincerely hoped that his wife would be happy with just the one child.

 

“Mr Darcy, the baby is nearly here,” Ellen prompted. “You need to get Mrs Darcy to push when I say.”

“Push?”

“Yes! Stand there,” she said pointing to the head of the bed. “When I say push,” she said to Elizabeth, “you need to push. You need to push hard.”

Elizabeth nodded and looked up at Darcy, taking her hand in his she squeezed it tightly, looking in his eyes for confirmation that all would be well. He looked back at her, scared witless, but trying to hide it.

“Mr Darcy, now!”

The head was crowning; Elizabeth had never felt a pain like it, the immense burning sensation running through her whole body. She screamed out in pain, taking the intensity of it and using it push down. There was relief and then, four weeks earlier than planned, Fitzwilliam George Darcy gave out a loud cry to announce his entry into the world.

*

The quick delivery of their son had astonished both Darcy and Elizabeth, but despite being perfect in the eyes of his parents, there was nothing to hide the fact that he was incredibly tiny and at least a month early, indeed Ellen had never seen a baby so small, and she swaddled him in cotton and blankets to keep him warm on this cold December night. Darcy had gone downstairs to inform the waiting party of the arrival of his son and heir to find everyone had gone to bed, except for his sister, who was uncomfortably asleep and perched on a chair, and Bingley and Jane who were asleep on couch, their heads resting on each other in a display of comfortable matrimony. Internally he scolded himself for ever doubting the sincerity of Jane’s affections towards his friend; they were the most content and amiable couple that he had ever had the pleasure of spending time with and he delighted in seeing Bingley so happy in his marriage.  He walked over and poured himself a glass of brandy – it had felt like a long night, however, after checking the clock on the mantelpiece he could see that it was a little after 3am. The whole process had taken just over four hours, and in that time, he had become a father. It was an exceptional feeling, and one that he felt overwhelmed by. For all his emotional reticence in public, or in the presence of strangers, Fitzwilliam Darcy was a passionate and caring man who loved his wife, his sister and now his son to levels of extreme. Standing at the window, looking down on to the snow scattered cobbled street below, he shed a small, significant tear of happiness for his fortunate position in life.

 

Darcy slowly creeped back into the room where his wife was nursing their newborn son; she looked so vulnerable and so unlike his normal resilient Elizabeth that he felt a sudden rush of tenderness and feeling, wishing that he could hold her inside his heart and keep her there forever. Master Fitzwilliam Darcy was tiny; barely bigger than a pup, but he would be strong, and he would be loved beyond measure. Elizabeth gazed at her husband with a look that he had never seen before; it was the contented love of a new mother. She nuzzled into him and he kissed her gently as they gazed at the pink perfection of their baby for a long time. When Ellen came back into the room an hour later, the Darcys were asleep on the bed and now they were three.

*

Jane was the first to hold Fitzwilliam and declared him absolutely perfect, followed by his Aunt Georgiana, who promised, after observing his long fingers, that she would teach him how to play pianoforte to such a high standard that he would be the most accomplished gentleman in England, as well as being the most handsome. Mrs Bennet, who took it upon herself to hold both of her grandchildren at the same time, found herself predisposed to grand-motherhood, much more so than raising her own children. This was helped by the knowledge that both had fathers who were considerably richer than her own husband and would want for nothing, in addition, the most rewarding delight, she found, was that she was able to hand both Charlotte and Fitzwilliam back to their respective parents as soon as any sign of inconvenience was displayed by either. The first morning of his existence was a busy one for the smallest Darcy, who found himself fussed over and sang to by all four of his aunts, with Georgiana and Kitty taking the time to perform a duet, the latter’s own playing recently being much improved; Mary commented on how fortunate they all were to be together after a tumultuous few days and everyone agreed that for once she was completely accurate in her assertions.

Elizabeth did not ever think that she would have been able to love someone with such an overpowering and deep love; not even the love she felt for Darcy – as tremendous as that was – compared to the emotion she experienced when she held their son in her arms. Indeed, watching her Darcy men observe each other over the past month with their soulful grey eyes made her weep with joy, much to her chagrin.

“Darcy,” she murmured softly. “When can we return home?”

He looked at her, still fragile, still more delicate than he would have hoped, she was drained; even though Master Fitzwilliam was relatively undemanding child, compared the fractious Charlotte, whose temperament was completely at odds with that of her parents, he was still a small child who needed his mother.  He took the baby from her, taking a moment to hold the tiny smallness of him close to his own chest, then he called for the nursemaid to take him to the nursery, for tonight his wife needed to rest, and he was determined that she would. For once in their short marriage, Elizabeth Darcy did not protest or argue with her husband and as Darcy climbed into bed with his wife, she snuggled against his chest, her arm thrown over him and settled.

The fire at the house in Derbyshire had not caused considerable damage; most of it was superficial, excepting a few destroyed tapestries and a scorched painting of a distant ancestor that had once hung at the top of the stairs. Darcy was confident that the repairs would be completed in time for the family to return before Spring and, even though he rode up to survey the damage for himself when Fitzwilliam was two weeks old, he left the management of the refurbishment to his staff. He requested that the nursery be repainted in a fresh cornflower blue that he knew his wife would approve of, it being the same colour as the waistcoat he wore on their wedding day, Elizabeth always taking the time to comment on how much she loved the shade. Darcy took the time to thank his steward and butler again for their continued service before riding back to his wife with a delicate and modest version of the Darcy Pearls necklace tucked away in his jacket.

The pendant glittered away around her neck as she slipped into a gentle slumber, “you did not answer, Fitzwilliam,” she softly whispered with a persistence that he had come to realise he couldn’t ignore. “When can we return to Pemberley?”

“Soon, my love,” he soothed. “Soon.”

*

“Jane! Jane!” Georgiana Darcy was beside herself with excitement as she witnessed Charlotte Bingley sitting up on the floor completely unsupported. Her mother arrived too late, and the baby fell over, crying out as her face landed on the chenille rug.  Jane laughed and gathered the child up into her embrace, whilst Georgiana was mortified.

“I am so sorry, Jane,” she apologised. “That was all my fault.”

“Not to worry, a little falling over hurt no-one and Charlotte is perfectly alright. Do not concern yourself, Georgie, you did nothing wrong.”

Jane had come to visit the house in Grosvenor Square for the afternoon, to take tea with Mrs and Miss Darcy and discuss their mutual plans to visit Hertfordshire for Mary’s wedding the following month. It was also decided that the Darcys alone would call to visit their Aunt De Bourgh and take the newest family member to be introduced to their formidable relative.

“I must say, Lizzy, you are very brave to visit Lady Catherine,” Jane stated, whilst sipping tea and rocking Charlotte on her knee.

Elizabeth smiled with good humour, “why not at all, Jane. I find that Lady Catherine is a very pleasing sparring partner once one has married into the family and already polluted the shades of Pemberley.”

Jane laughed at her sister’s humour; she did not envy Lizzy for the visit – Lady Catherine terrified her, and her first meeting with the noble mistress of Rosings Park had left her stomach in knots. Georgiana too felt similarly wary of her Aunt and her sudden demands for attention and gratification; it was because of this that she asked Jane if she were able to reside with the Bingleys for the duration of the Darcy visit to Kent to which Jane kindly obliged, the younger Darcy lady content that her remaining time away from Pemberley would be spent in their happy home.

Darcy was in the nursery of Derbyshire House, his waistcoat removed, his cravat loosened, his shirt pulled loose, his boots off, and he was sitting in the rocking chair in his stockinged feet, cradling his son in his arms whilst simultaneously telling him an incredible story of pirates and shipwrecks. Fitzwilliam cooed and smiled at his father, which caused him to smile to himself. The youngest Darcy was now strong enough to travel; the doctor who had been unable to attend the birth and who was now outrageously apologetic for his absence, had deemed the child perfectly healthy and progressing at the correct rate. It was a relief for Darcy, who had treated the child and his wife with the utmost care and most observant of attentions in the ten weeks since the birth. Elizabeth was now herself again and, although he had been as traumatised as any other gentleman would be after witnessing the birth of his child, he professed to her one night, when the candlelight was dim, and they had drunk lots of wine, that he would like them to have enough babies to fill every room at Pemberley. Elizabeth had laughed, knowing full well that her husband had drank far too much port, and that there were over twenty-five bedrooms waiting to be occupied, but as he had kissed her slowly, almost reverently, and passionately for the first time since the birth, she knew, submitting to his desire as well as her own, that she would happily have as many children as he wanted, and fill their home with laughter, love and life.

*

Elizabeth nuzzled the tiny dark-haired child; he had her unruly curls and his father’s piercing grey eyes. Now three months old he was getting stronger every day, the frightening nature of his early birth assuaged by his good-tempered nature. He was, Elizabeth thought, the most amenable child that she had the fortune to meet, and she counted herself lucky that he belonged to her; holding him close, she rested her head on her husband’s shoulder as the carriage rumbled on towards Pemberley.  It had been a long few months away, with visits to relatives, the baptism of Fitzwilliam George and the arduous visit to Rosings Park. After their wedding, which Lady Catherine had refused to attend, Elizabeth had taken it upon herself to make amends with her husband’s relative, accompanying Georgiana whenever she was summoned to Kent and eventually charming the self-appointed family matriarch with her steady wit and restrained flattery. Darcy had refused to make amends with the lady after her treatment of his betrothed and his refusal to yield had maddened his wife to the point of exasperation. After the birth of the younger Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth had pushed and prodded him to reconcile, the culmination of which had been the successful visit by Mr, Mrs and Master Darcy to the De Bourgh home where all past ills and resentments were forgotten. Lady Catherine was immediately besotted with her new great-nephew and delighted for the return of Darcy, who had always been her particular favourite.

The carriage passed through the gatehouse and over the bridge which crossed the river, Darcy felt relief as he saw the illuminated outline of his own great house on the horizon. The beacons were lit, and he could hear the excited hum of a house waking up from the enforced winter slumber. Elizabeth was resting against him in the carriage and he leaned over to gently kiss her on the forehead, and she stirred and opened her eyes momentarily. The carriage rumbled over the cobbled driveway, clattering as it did so, the heat and smell from the torches drifting over towards them as they pulled up the gatehouse, just as the clock in the tower struck eight o’clock.

“Mrs Darcy”, came the whisper. “We’re home.”


	16. Lizzy

The bar at the top of the Beetham Tower was suitably glamorous, with tall sweeping views across the cityscape fading into the countryside beyond, the windows reached from floor to ceiling and small polished tables were dotted around the edges as all shapes and sizes of Mancunian society enjoyed the food and the fabulous cocktails. It was on the 23rd floor that this small intimate gathering was taking place and the four figures were perched awkwardly on stools at one of the large tables that edged the centre of the room. Lizzy, befittingly dressed in something demure teamed with red sparkly shoes, was trying hard to make conversation with Carol, who looked more stretched and artificial every time she saw her. Hugh was murmuring softly to Matthew, who kept looking at his watch and then at his phone before smiling up at them apologetically. They walked over to the bar together and she grazed his hand with her fingertips.

“Not today, Lizard.”

She looked up at him questioningly, “Cara?”

He nodded, ordering their drinks. They stood in silence. She felt like a hollowed-out tree.

“You should leave her.”

“I should do a lot of things, Lizzy.”

He was acting strangely tonight, she thought, constantly checking his phone, ignoring her attempts to make conversation. It was as if he was ignorant of her presence. It was weird, and she didn’t like it.  He walked off in the direction of their table and she followed sullenly. She hadn’t wanted to come to this tonight and she found that, once she sat down, she was swinging her legs petulantly like a spoiled child, banging her heels off the metal of the stool, and sipping her Old Fashioned through the tiniest of straws. Matthew kept glancing at his phone and then up at her as they made small talk with her father and Carol, who had already annihilated a bottle of Merlot. Benn Williams was forty minutes late now and they were all running out of things to talk about deemed suitable for polite conversation.

Hugh Darcy didn’t want to be here tonight; he had better things to do than sit in a bar with his wife, who would get drunk and then pick an argument on the way home. He looked over at Lizzy who looked equally bored, and Matthew who was scrolling through his phone. He knew it was a cliché, but he couldn’t stand Wickham, hated how he never did the right thing by Lizzy. He could see now that his daughter was still hopelessly in love with this man who would never be able to offer her the things that she deserved. Darcys were always ridiculously unlucky in love, he thought, as he watched his wife down her third glass of Merlot.

Benn parked the car near the Museum of Science and Industry, stumbling past a group of lads on the street who accosted him for selfies and bought him a beer, chatting jovially with him and then letting him continue on his way. He always found it important to take time to speak to fans, never being dismissive as he found some of his peers did. It was never his intention to be late, in fact he hated being late for anything, and as he looked at his watch he realised that he had kept the Duke of Derbyshire waiting now for over fifty minutes. He was immediately recognised in the lift, the two women in the corner mumbling and giggling, before taking sly photos with their phones thinking that he wouldn’t notice and slipping out of the lift laughing out loud and turning back to look at him, just to make sure. Matthew waved him over impatiently and he plastered on his smile, holding out his hand and greeting the Duchess with a kiss on the cheek, the Duke with a firm handshake and Lizzy with a kiss on the hand.

“And how are you finding Derbyshire?” Hugh asked as the starters were placed on the table.

The service had been quick for this VIP group, the chefs in the kitchen advised that not only did they have Benn Williams in house, but also a Duke and Duchess, and Lady Liz, who always tipped well.

“I find it charming, although I am a northern boy by birth,” he stabbed a juicy prawn, and shoved it in his mouth. “Despite what my agent would have you believe… ‘Praise to the Skies’ was my big break.”

“Oh, I love that film,” Carol exclaimed. “Steven Malis was a wonderfully devilish cad,” Carol purred at him, leaning over and placing her hand suggestively on his arm. “Whereabouts are you from? Cheshire? We have a lovely set of friends in Alderley Edge, perhaps you know them…”

“I very much doubt that,” he smiled.

“Benn grew up in social housing, he’s kind of a rags to riches story all by himself,” Matthew dragged his eyes away from his phone to participate in the conversation.

 “A council estate?” Carol enunciated snottily, retracting her hand quickly and sniffing her wine with unmitigated pretension.

“I do take some responsibility,” Matthew interrupted, “if my little film hadn’t plucked him from obscurity, then you would be all be running in very different circles.”

“Really?” Carol said with a strangely haughty tone, that made Matthew and Lizzy look at each other knowingly. “But you always seem to be so… well-bred.” 

Lizzy guffawed before eating her bruschetta, crumbs falling over her dress.  Benn looked at her, a smile crossing his lips as he addressed the Duchess directly.

 “It’s all a façade, I’m afraid.” He flashed his charming smile, before whispering conspiratorially, “all cheap trickery and posh accents, but don’t tell anyone… It can be our secret.”

 

Benn tried to refocus the conversation, “I hear the slight hint of a Yorkshire twang there, your grace … are we both faking it?”

He watched as Carol visibly buffered, like a YouTube video failing to load, and he took a large swig of his water, before throwing Lizzy a wry smile which she returned.

 “You know, Matthew, I find your attitude a bit presumptuous,” Lizzy said, the words bitter like lemon. “I’m pretty sure that he would made it with or without you to be fair.”

“There is always some truth in everything,” Benn tried to placate everyone on all sides.

“Although it’s not like Matthew found you cleaning out the whippet cage, is it?” Lizzy smirked, looking pointedly at the man himself, who was glaring at her.

“Well no, but…”

Benn sensed the tension between Lizzy and Matthew, wasn’t sure what was happening or even if he wanted to get involved. She was sparking with anger, he could see it written across her body as she postured herself in hard angles.

“My daughter tells me that you are a Cambridge man, like myself,” Hugh, desperately wanting the night to end, poured himself another glass of wine, tried to prevent an awkward silence.

Benn’s attention turned towards Lizzy and she swallowed hard. After their last encounter she had pulled up his page on Wikipedia, read how he had graduated from Trinity College with a degree in History, played Rugby, been an active member of the Footlights, and dated Lady Sarah for three years before there was an awkward break-up just after graduation. He had moved to London and won a post-grad place at RADA, ending up in the same class as Madeleine Tennant. And the rest… well, that was tabloid gold.

“Lady Elizabeth would be correct,” he smiled at her genially, and she found that she smiled back despite herself.

The dinner passed in a haze of laughter and information, Matthew was charming and delightful as usual, and Benn did his best to charm Carol, who was decidedly less snobby now that he had discovered her secret. Hugh asked questions and was polite in the way that he had been brought up to be, being generally affable and polite as he waited for his turn to speak. She noticed a touch of iciness between Hugh and Carol – they were always weirdly distant, her stepmother having all the warmth of an ice pack, but this was more pointed than usual, and she wanted to get her dad alone; but then again there was always the stress of Imogen, whose name caused tension whenever it was mentioned.

Carol and Hugh were the first to leave; she tottered out on heels that were too high, he held her arm like the gentleman he was, and she grasped it tightly, denoting ownership and using him to balance. Benn followed them down in the lift as Carol’s glacial fake laughter shattered against the granite walls. Matthew left next, his attention half drawn for most of the night by a vibrating phone and excuses, followed by whispers on the outskirts of the conversation.

“Are you not taking me home tonight?” She questioned, as he stood to leave.

“No,” there was a dismissive tone in his voice. “I’m not going back that way.”

Lizzy was left at the bar, sipping on a Pellegrino and pondering whether to order an uber or get the train home.

“Pellegrino,” came the voice. “Cleansing…. Glad you decided to follow my advice.”

“Do you make a habit of insulting people, or is this specially reserved for me?”

She shoved her keys and her phone into her bag, a delicate, pointless embroidered thing that Harriet had made her use, and jumped off the stool; the bag fell to the floor and the contents spilled out. He kneeled quickly, placing her belongings back into the bag.

 “Just you, I’m afraid,” he handed the bag back to her and she accepted it with a small smile

“Well, thanks,” she said with more than a dash of sarcasm and a roll of the eyes. “Oh, and just as an FYI… Flowers don’t work with me.”

“You got them then?”

“Yes,” she said begrudgingly. “I did, thank you, they are very beautiful.”

The massive handtied arrangement of roses, lilies, and hydrangeas had arrived at the office the previous afternoon, causing Deb to raise her eyebrow and Harris to begin sneezing and complaining about his hayfever.  

He stood next to her; she shuffled uncomfortably as their arms touched at the busy bar.

“What would work with you?”

“Macarons or gin, if you’re asking. Why, is there something else you need to apologise for with gifts? Dobbed me in to Joyce for looking at you funny?”

He was silent. She wondered why inside she was daring him to say something, wanting him to challenge her, but he didn’t; instead he smiled graciously.

“I wondered when you would say thanks, I thought manners were rectally inserted into you posh types at Cheltenham Ladies.”

“Well, I’ve been avoiding you because you’re an arsehole,” she said. “Even if you do have an assistant with very good taste in flowers.” She smiled slightly, “…and I didn’t go to Cheltenham Ladies.”

“I could tell – you’re not walking funny.”

She viewed him curiously, took another mouthful of her water and wished she was somewhere else.

“Didn’t your ex go to Cheltenham Ladies?”

“Sarah?” He remembered that she had been cyberstalking him all week, “yeah, she did.”

“Well I went to Lambton High, so I am really sorry to disappoint.”

There was a roar of screams and laughter from the doorway as a hen party entered from the lift, a perfect storm of snapping heels, Michael Kors perfume and hair extensions. Lizzy was jostled at the bar as the bride to be aimed straight for the barman and ordered tequila for the whole party.

“Would you like a lift home?”

Lizzy had two choices here; she could continue with her cold front and tell him to get lost, or she could accept his offer of a lift. Truth be told, she didn’t fancy the journey home on the train and he was going her way.

“Okay,” she agreed, albeit begrudgingly. “That would be nice.”

He drove her back to Pemberley in a dark blue 4x4 with cream leather seats and a rocket lolly air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. It was very tidy; if you ignored the backseat where jackets had been thrown, and the footwell where two pairs of pink trainers and a Minecraft slingbag had been discarded.

“Strange choice for a movie star,” she said, voicing her dismay.

She had expected a plush Range Rover or something fast and expensive, and wondered why one of the world’s highest paid actors had chosen a Volvo, typically the car of headteachers and architects.

“It has all the bells and whistles,” he said defensively. “Look!” He jabbed at the dashboard, the display flickering to life, the radio blaring offensively, “I can connect it to my phone. Watch this – voice activated – Route to Pemberley House.”

The panel flashed to life and the journey back home was plotted out in vibrant HD.

“You seem overly impressed by this.”

“It’s like the future,” he said wondrously. “Do you not think that?”

He had explained that when his girls were at home and his schedule allowed, he did the school run and he had read online that they were the safest around, as well as being economical and cheap to run, cheap to insure too, he had added. He told her about his daughters, how he had been home in Clapham this week for a few days when his schedule had allowed. She noticed the way his face lit up when he spoke about Esther, who was eleven and could play the drums, and nine-year-old Anya, who could now speak French fluently. She sensed the sadness in his voice when he told her how much he missed them.

“So, what was going on with you and Matthew?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking here. “Forgive me if I am being too nosey.”

“Nothing,” she smiled nervously, “why do you ask?”

He viewed her with a growing curiosity; could see the doubt running across her face.

“He seemed distracted, and you seemed angry.”

“Matthew always makes me angry.”

Benn knew that wasn’t the case, he had witnessed the on-location visits, the phonecalls, the hidden messages pinging up on Matthew’s phone between scenes. He always viewed any kind of infidelity as bad, but now after the breakdown of his own marriage his opinions had changed somewhat. You couldn’t help who you fell in love with; even if the timing was always horribly inconvenient.

“What happened?”

His voice was soft, comforting and she found herself strangely drawn to the words in the moonlight.

“Life happened,” the tone was sad. “I don’t understand how he can stay with her after all we have been through, after all we have meant to each other.”

“Sometimes there are no reasons and we have to just accept it.”

“I don’t accept it, or I might accept it if he was with someone who appreciated him… that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want the person you love to be happy, even if that means that they are happy without you. But he isn’t happy,” she took a breath. “He’s stagnant and putting up with it because he thinks it’s all he deserves.”

“Are you in love with him? Surely that’s the most important part.”

“I have always been in love with him, but now I’m not even sure if it’s enough.” she paused. “I don’t even know why I am telling you this… I’m sorry!”

“Stop apologising; it makes it easier I think if you get it out of your head.”

“Yes, but I don’t even know you,” she glanced over the handsome actor.

“Maybe that’s why it’s easier.”

He turned and smiled softly at her, finding that she returned the gesture, and when she looked out of the window, the lights of the M60 flashing against her face as they turned off the motorway and onto the winding country lanes that led to Pemberley.

“I am sorry that I was a dick,” he said. “I know you were trying to be friendly. I was having a bad day…a bad _week_ , and I took it out on you.” He looked genuinely contrite. “I apologise, most wholeheartedly.”

The car turned into the north gate and she tapped in the code before they curved down the driveway, juddering over the cattlegrid.  She nodded, reluctantly accepting his apology as they continued the journey up the drive, she noticed he strictly observed the 20mph speed limit, even though she would usually race up the winding road. Lizzy knew that his apology was genuine, that he felt remorse for his earlier behaviour. She recognised in him a sadness, one that she knew all too well, and she realised that there was more under this arrogant veneer than she had first anticipated. They pulled up in front of the north front gate and he got out of the car, opening the door and being generally quite gentlemanly as he walked her to large, studded door that closed off Pemberley from the rest of the world.

“I think we might just have got off on the wrong foot,” she said. “I’m willing to start again if you are.”

“Deal.”

She gestured for him to sit with her on the stone seats in the porch underneath the clock that was now gently chiming midnight

“I need to ask you something.”

“Okay,” he said hesitantly, unsure what she could possibly need to know.

“Are you still drinking?”  

Lizzy knew all about the filming of ‘A Peculiar Good’, a tense thriller involving multiple locations and three countries, where he had turned up drunk on more than one occasion and singlehandedly caused the budget to skyrocket when four days of filming were lost. She knew that Matthew had needed to pull out all the stops and charm to convince the studio to support his hiring for Pride and Prejudice, and there were lots of clauses and requirements in his contract to curtail his behaviour. At this point in his career, Benn Williams was on the verge of becoming a liability. 

“No,” he lied emphatically. “Not within the last few weeks.”

“That must be very difficult.”

“It is.”

He held his hand out, it was shaking slightly; she could see the tremor in the moonlight.

“These were much worse when I got here.”

Placing his hand back into his pocket, he wondered why he had felt comfortable enough to share this with her. He barely knew her either. Benn had never thought that ‘the shakes’ were a real thing. He had thought that the pint shared with the Manchester boys earlier this evening would have helped eased it, but he found to his dismay that they rattled through him harder and stronger as his body cried out for more booze. Fighting against yourself every day was exhausting, but he pressed on.

“Is there anything I can do?” She glanced up at him. “I’m sorry if I’m being over familiar…but I know what it’s like to need a friend.”

There was a different softness in her voice, the haughty tones replaced by a softer Derbyshire lilt. She placed her hand on his and he felt touched at the gentle gesture by a comparative stranger.  The look that she gave him was quite solemn; he observed that she had long eyelashes that framed dark grey eyes, they were like the ones he had seen in the portrait of Fitzwilliam Darcy on his private behind the scenes tour of the house – he imagined that sometimes they could be warm and fluid, but other times sharp and hard like granite.

Benn had presumed all ladies of the aristocracy were like his girlfriend from Cambridge – a privileged coolness tinged with a haughty arrogance all wrapped up in a beautifully manicured and coiffured package, smelling like Penhaligon’s fragrances and the luxury of not having to work. Sarah hadn’t smiled too much either, didn’t like how it caused her forehead to wrinkle and her mouth to pull back to reveal dimples on her cheeks, which she thought made her look ridiculous. They hadn’t made her look ridiculous, he had thought, they had made her look alive.

Lizzy didn’t seem to be a typical Lady at all, well from what he knew of them; her nails were roughly painted, her hair loose and wild, and she smelled like a packet of ginger biscuits. He had spent the whole night trying to work out what it was, the indistinct whiffs of it teasing his nostrils throughout the night, but it was the same smell from his childhood. He imagined Lizzy was very much like one of those little biscuits from the kitchen of his Nan’s house in Salford, hard and unmoving until softened by the warmth of a cup of tea; because here she was, holding out the hand of friendship to him – a man who had done very little to deserve it.  

“If drinking is your demon, then you need to do all you can to defeat it,” she paused for a moment, pondering, the words seeming to roll about in her mouth. “It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back, so shake him off.”

“That’s very wise,” he said, with all seriousness.

“It’s Florence and the Machine,” she looked at him, confused that he didn’t get the reference as he looked back at her completely nonplussed. “Do you not know Shake It Off?”

He shook his head, and she deep sighed at him loudly, which he laughed at; reaching into the paper bag that she had brought from the restaurant, she pulled out a large tub of carrot cake with a dollop of cream and two plastic spoons.

“Now, I was saving this, and Harriet will never forgive me, but seeing as you have been so kind as to bring me home…”

She passed him one of the spoons, Benn was ravenous for cake and dug into the moist sponge, savouring each mouthful of the frosted walnut and carrot confection. They sat for a moment in silence. The only noise in the great park, usually so alive with voices, was the sound of the occasional owl hooting out its lonely cry to the darkness.

“So, you’re saying,” he was licking frosting from the spoon. “that we’re kind of friends now.”

“Well I did share my cake…” She looked up at him, in part admiration and part disgust at the vehement way he was attacking the spoon.

“Even if I’m a complete arsehole?”

He smiled with his whole face and she noticed that his eyes lit up and actually twinkled in the moonlight. It was strange seeing them up close and not displayed in giant size on the side of a bus. They were much nicer in real life. He was much nicer in real life. He was normal, and she liked hearing the northern inflections appearing in his voice when he dropped his guard and forgot who he was meant to be.

“I think we have both agreed on that you are a complete arsehole,” she laughed, “and as long as you are happy to proceed under that understanding then I think we are both done here, don’t you?” She ate her last mouthful of carrot cake before looking at him questioningly.

 “Lady Elizabeth, I do not believe we have had the pleasure of being formerly introduced” he proclaimed in his best Mr Darcy voice, gallantly holding out his hand, which she took gracefully and shook firmly. “I am Mr Williams of Thurleigh Road, Clapham, currently residing in Derbyshire at the home of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Laughing, she played along, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Williams!” She did a small curtsey. “I am Lady Elizabeth Georgiana Darcy,” she looked at him pointedly and with a warm smile that he found he returned, “but my _friends_ call me Lizzy.”

 “Dearest Lizzy,” he began, wanting to eke out the last drops of the evening, enjoying feeling like a regular person.  “Do you fancy going out for tea sometime, somewhere not poncey? I would like to say sorry properly, I am usually much better behaved.”

“Now, do you mean ‘tea’ as in dinner?” She questioned, with a cheeky look on her face. “You’ve lived down south long enough to maybe mean ‘tea’ as in a cup of…”

“Yes, tea as in dinner,” he laughed. “I think I have some coupons for the Toby Carvery.”

“Ooh,” she giggled. “I do love an all you can eat meat buffet!”

He raised an eyebrow, “it was just an invitation to tea, Darcy, don’t go getting all overexcited.”

Lizzy flushed a little and looked away, she had no idea why she had said that, but she liked that he teased her about it. There was more to Benn Williams than she had initially thought, and she enjoyed the slightly irreverent flirt with the handsome gentleman who was currently spending his days dressed in a cravat or being forced to run around the parklands to shed the pounds.

He noticed the slight blush to her cheek and the little crinkle above her nose that appeared when she smiled.

“Tea would be lovely,” she grinned, already wondering what an earth they were going to talk about.  


	17. Elizabeth - 1816

The morning had been quiet, there had not been the sound of running up and down the halls, nor the frustrated shouts of the nursemaid, nor the general uproar that usually accompanied sunrise in the Darcy household. In fact, Elizabeth had been surprised when she had been able to rise at her own leisure, enjoy a bath before beginning her toilette, and enjoy a somewhat still and restful breakfast. It was a rare thing indeed, and something that she had enjoyed very much. Now as she finished her book and enjoyed tea with lemon biscuits, she gazed down onto the front lawn from her position in the library and could see Fitzwilliam and his younger, more adventurous brother, James, playing croquet with their father.  The older boy was more reserved, much more like his namesake – observing and calculating every outcome before committing to any action, whereas the younger threw himself all in and damned the consequences. Her husband was laughing, the loud deep sound falling out of him as he picked the boys up and swinging them around, until all hope of completing their game was abandoned and all three of her Darcys were racing each other up and down the grass in the early April sunshine, looking like a herd of deer being chased down from the hills.

The past few years has gone by in a whirlwind and before they had even settled into a daily routine of family life, the family had found themselves as the parents of two boys. Fitzwilliam had been not quite two when James was born, a wonderfully easy birth which she had rejoiced in, and they were the best of friends and partners in crime. Now five and three, they were about to welcome a new Darcy into the world and although she would have never said out loud, Elizabeth hoped that this new babe would be a girl, so she would, at last, have an ally in the household. That said, she was so large and unwieldy that Darcy was convinced there were about five babies in there.  Jane, who had borne four children in quick succession, said that it was normal for your body to be different with each child and that, whilst she enjoyed being the mother of such a large brood, she had banished Bingley to his chambers for the present time to avoid any happy accidents whilst her own body recovered.

The Bingleys had their hands full with Charlotte, Abigail, Charles and Peter, and were nearly always in the country now and very rarely in town, much to the disappointment of Mrs Hurst who, now widowed and childless, loved to spend time with her gaggle of nieces and nephews and frittered away her inheritance on them in lieu of offspring of her own. The house at Dunham was very comfortable and, much to the delight of Mrs Bennet, had very good attics. Like Pemberley, the house was based in expansive grounds and home to a herd of deer who provided much sport to the gentlemen when it was the season. With such gentlemanly pursuits available to both Bingley and Darcy so close to their own homes, it was no shock to anyone that the families only travelled into London for the first two weeks of the season, before retreating to their estates and declaring that they much preferred their own society.

The children had been taken to the nursery for the afternoon and he had convinced her to take a walk with him around the grounds, he knew that walking was always good in the later stages of pregnancy, and he knew how much his wife loved to walk. Darcy held his wife’s hand tightly in his own, who would have known seven years ago on his first visit to Hertfordshire that he would eventually return to Pemberley and Miss Elizabeth Bennet would be its mistress. He observed her closely, she had changed a great deal in those seven years, but all for the better.

They journeyed out of the south front of the house and stood for a moment in front of the lake before turning left and walking up past the Orangery. It was the route that they had taken on Elizabeth’s first visit to Derbyshire when Darcy, filled with hope, longing and anxiety, had taken it upon himself to show her how much of a gentleman he could be after her rebuke and rejection of his first proposal. She had not realised how much hurt that had caused him, throwing the words out, as she did, like arrows and not caring where they landed. But he was grateful. He was grateful because she had highlighted to him the error of his ways and had allowed him a second chance to prove to her that he was worthy of joining his life with hers. They trod their well-worn path up to the rose garden where once, newlywed and enamoured, they had foregone propriety and kissed fervently under the tiled roof of the pergola, before returning to their rooms quickly before all modicum of respectability was lost.

“Darcy, I hope you know this, but this life of ours makes me happier than I ever hoped I would be.”

Elizabeth was leaning back on the wooden bench looking down onto the newly budding roses and the lake beyond. Darcy reached for her gloved hand and raising it to his lips, gently kissed it.

“Me too, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

She laughed at him before kissing his hand in return and holding it tightly, resting it on her lap, Elizabeth always felt that she could conquer the whole world with one hand if Darcy was holding the other.

“I never thought that I would ever be the mistress of somewhere like Pemberley, I never wished it for myself, my only wish was for the deepest love and maybe a small household somewhere far enough from my mother that she would think twice about visiting every day.”

“I hope, Mrs Darcy, that you did eventually marry for love.”

Elizabeth smiled wryly, “mainly for love, partly for the big house.”

Darcy laughed, “and my ten thousand a year!”

Even though he laughed, she could sense his fleeting but underlying insecurity that it was his wealth and not himself that had attracted her, it was something that not even nearly eight years of marriage and two children could fully abate. She gently cupped his face in her hands and kissed him gently on the nose.

“You know I would love you even if you were penniless,” she reassured, “all of this means nothing to me.”

He took a short moment to recover himself and looked oft into the distance at the grand south front façade of the hall, with its Palladian columns and ornate statues. He knew his self-doubt was a failing and he was constantly trying to resolve it; he gave his wife an appreciative look, which she returned, her eyes sparkling in the afternoon haze. She knew of the inner workings of his mind and the constant battle he had within himself to be both Mr Darcy of Derbyshire, and Fitzwilliam, the husband and father.

“But,” he stated, “ten thousand a year always makes a man appear more attractive in the eyes of a woman.”

“This is true, I mean if you had not a great estate in Derbyshire then I would not have been able to overlook your pointy chin.”

“My chin is not pointy.”

“It is, husband, something we cannot deny, but hopefully beards will be the fashion again in the not too distant future and you will be able to disguise it somewhat.”

“Mrs Darcy, you take great pleasure in offending me I feel!” He looked at her with humour, enjoying the teasing and easy repartee that had become a fixture of their everyday lives.

“Why of course, a wife must always tantalise their husband with wit and humour!” She laughed loudly. “Now Mr Darcy, if you would be so kind as to accompany me to the top lawn then I will be happy to oblige you with more offence than you are used to.”

Darcy took his wife’s hand as requested and tucked it under his own; she smiled up at him and confirmed to him once more that he was, without doubt, the happiest and luckiest man in England.


	18. Lizzy

Harriet slumped into the large couch which dominated the flat. She had been on set since 5am, trussed up in her maid’s costume and performing the same action a hundred times. Her dad had been a complete idiot all day – she knew that it was what he did for a job, and he was really good at it, but he was so bossy and demanding that she had wished she had gone to work at the souvenir shop in Lambton, where she could sell Mr Darcy magnets and Lady Catherine’s Lemon Curd to foreign tourists. At least she could tell him to bog off, no-one else could. She felt sorry for the other ‘supporting artists’ who he had been bollocking for nearly twelve hours straight, and for poor Jenny Graves – who had been being the focus of father’s final tirade. It hadn’t been her fault, really, that the whole day had been wasted; it was Benn Williams who had forgotten his lines and his cues, but who was too important to be on the receiving end of the vitriol. Harriet had never seen her dad so angry, shouting and screaming about unprofessionalism and demanding that everyone leave the set, before storming off to his trailer.

Harriet wasn’t sure what was happening with her Mum and Benn Williams, but she did know that her Mum was smiling a lot more than usual; and laughing a whole lot more. She had also noticed that her dad was spending much less time at the flat. She wasn’t stupid; she knew that they had been at it for ages, she just wished that they could decide what they both wanted and get on with it. Harriet wasn’t sure what was happening with her dad either, she hadn’t been able to get in touch with Cara, and the iMessages that she sent to Oleander remained unread. Her brother had been messaging her a lot before their dad arrived at Pemberley, he had been tired of the arguing, but now it had stopped and there remained an unnerving silence that he hated even more. She hasn’t spoken to him for three weeks now, and it was a concern.

Walking up the back staircase and through the door at the left, Harriet pushed her way through the door to the flat she shared with her mum. It would be nice, she thought, to have a house where you could put out a deckchair when it was nice and sit out on the garden during the day, rather than having to wait until everyone had gone home and then sneak out like some kind of rebel. She peered out onto the courtyard below from the tall windows; crew members were busy resetting for the ‘return to Pemberley’ scene that her dad was so excited about, she guessed that they would be having another go at it tomorrow. It was now seven o’clock and she was knackered.

 “Mum!”

Nothing.

“Mum?”

Harriet turned up the stairs and flopped into her bed – stuffed full of catering truck tacos she fell asleep within minutes.

*

The Toby Carvery in Kympton was packed full of parties and people; they ended up queuing for a table in awkward silence, neither knowing what to say. He could see a girl of about ten, with wide eyes and a large pink bow in her hair, looking over at him shyly and he smiled, watching as she turned back quickly and pulled on her dad’s arm. The man turned around, he was a large man with a tattoo of a dragon on his bare arm, the hint of musky aftershave and hard work surrounding him.

“Lady Liz?”

Lizzy had been recognised by the very well-built grandson of a white-haired, well dressed lady of advancing years called Violet who was celebrating her eightieth birthday, and who insisted that Lady Darcy take a piece of birthday cake. Benn enjoyed watching his date for the evening being suitably feted. He hadn’t realised how well-known she was, and as he watched her talk to the birthday girl and her friends, asking them about themselves, greeting them all like old friends, and paying for their drinks, he found it admirable. Surprisingly he found that he had remained anonymous here in Derbyshire; there had been a few days of interest when filming began, and he had taken a few selfies with other guests at the Alveston, but he had been able to fly under the radar of recognition. He thought it was down to the change in appearance, he looked very different with dark Darcy curls, he barely recognised himself.  

They enjoyed the rest of their evening without attracting further attention, except from the waitress who had good humouredly refused to accept Benn’s coupon. Lizzy had laughed as he had pulled it out of his wallet as the bill was presented, calling him a skinflint, but noticed that he redeemed himself by leaving two twenty-pound notes tucked under his plate.

As they drove back through the winding country lanes of Derbyshire, through Newtown, Furness Vale and New Mills, and then Lambton itself, they talked about the film – he said he had never read the book, and she chided him in such a way that he stopped the car to tell her off with a massive grin on his face. He asked her about Matthew and she said that there was nothing to talk about really; she asked him if had enjoyed London and he said that he hadn’t, but that he had a good divorce lawyer, Mark Goulding, who was getting paid a whole heap of money to make things better. It turned out that she knew Mark and told him to ask for Mates Rates, which he laughed at. He drove her back to the top gate of Pemberley and was surprised when she asked him if he wanted to go inside.

“Excuse me if I have misunderstood, Lady Elizabeth, but are you inviting me up for _coffee_?”

He was teasing her now, in the deep, booming Mr Darcy voice that was so different from his own.

“Please don’t be expecting anything untoward, acting is such a vulgar profession and I am a Lady!” She grinned, with a mock indignation that made him laugh with his whole face, “and you, Mr Darcy, have no sense of propriety.”

There was that laugh again, it felt strange coming out of his body; but he liked the way it felt. He liked the way she made him feel. They wandered through the cloisters of the courtyard, then up the winding staircase in the far-left corner, the entrance to which was concealed behind a large oak door, lit by a dim bulb in a glass and iron lantern. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed this before; the hidden corners of Pemberley now being revealed to him. Lizzy’s key had clanked in the lock and he felt as if he was being let in on the secret as he followed her down passages and through doors he had never seen before and then up the narrow flights of stairs to her odd little apartment in the tower behind the famous Palladian facade. She told him that the flat was spread out over three floors, and comprised of the old Tower bedroom, with its view over the reflection lake, and the rooms above which had made up the female servants’ quarters.

They slipped through the front door of the flat, which had a sign screwed to it: Please Keep This Door Shut, and then into the main room, which was large and airy, with a tall ceiling and three large windows that glanced down over the lake – at one end there was a large dining room table, covered in books; at the other a large sofa and a small, squat chair that stood next to a round table. The room was painted in a deep, dark blue, with pictures and mirrors and photographs covering the walls. In the centre, the room was dominated by a wooden kitchen with dangling lights and large wooden topped island. He commented on how surprisingly like a Manhattan loft it felt, and she had laughed at his strangely placed flattery. She told him how it had been cobbled together by the Historic House Society after they inherited her and needed to find somewhere for her to live, but he found it was stylish, understated and a bit eclectic, with odd shabby pieces of furniture, which he assumed were family heirlooms, mixed with newer bits and bobs. There were also piles and piles of books, on the coffee table where she had temptingly placed a few biscuits on a plate and over in the kitchen, where one wall was home to a massive bookcase.

“Do you read?” he asked, before realising that it was a stupid question, given that he was surrounded by books, but then thinking that maybe they were all for show. His own coffee table was filled with thick slabs of self-importance that were rarely touched, unless Anya needed something to lean on when she was drawing.

“Yes, I do like to read… a lot,” she crossed over and plonked herself on the large leather armchair. “It makes me sad to think that there is a massive library in the house down there and nobody ever reads the books in it anymore”

 “Can you not go and read in the library downstairs,” he questioned, intertwining his fingers around the hand of the coffee mug, “would that be against the rules?”

Lizzy thought carefully before answering, the truth was that if she asked nicely then she probably could, but it wasn’t the same. She couldn’t curl up in her pyjamas with a mug of hot chocolate and lemon biscuits on the big old armchair in front of the fire or pile a stack of books high and spend an afternoon working through them. She wouldn’t be able to hear Winston snoring in his chair as they waited for Mrs Reynolds to cook their Sunday lunch, listening to records and lazing about. So instead of trying to get used to this new order, she simply didn’t really go into the library anymore unless specifically asked about something in there. Once the HHS had taken over they had painted over the soft yellows and white, replacing the creamy damasks with heavy velvets and red, flocked wallpaper in an early Victorian style, which Lizzy thought made it like an Indian restaurant regardless of how historically accurate it was.

“Against the rules in the sense that I would get really told off, but also that it’s not really my library anymore – not the one I grew up with.” she mumbled. “My grandad bequeathed all of the books to the HHS, but they didn’t want a lot of them, so the ones you see in here with the Darcy coat of arms on are the ones from the library. If you go in there and it hasn’t got this gold bull on it,” she pulled one of the books from the coffee table to show him, “then it’s not from the Pemberley library. It’s an imposter.”

He took the book from her - ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho’ – noting the angry little bull with his whipping tail, embossed in gold on the spine. “Sounds like a classy piece of literature.” He flicked through the pages, noting some small annotations in faded ink on the pages.

“More famous for being a book within a book rather than anything else,” she said disparagingly, eyeing him as he plopped his well-dressed frame on her shabby sofa. “So, when did you get your big break? Was it _really_ Praise to the Skies?!”       

Benn didn’t want to go through telling her about the long spells working in minimum wage jobs and traipsing to auditions on his days off, how his family were constantly anxious that he had chosen a life of uncertainty and poverty, instead of the well-paid job in the City that had been offered. Sarah had freaked out about it too, wanting a man who could offer her the lifestyle she was used to and the Tiffany ring she expected. She had brutally dumped him via a friend of a friend. She had even kept his Madness t-shirt.

“Oh, it took years, _years_ … I did a few small films when I left RADA, terrible films” he groaned, recalling some of the terrible things he had been in. “Then there was a lot of regional theatre – I was the best Widow Twanky in Leicester for three seasons.”

He pretended to adjust his bosom and she grinned at him, before grabbing for a biscuit off the table.

“You did panto?” she questioned, “I thought actors like you were made in labs somewhere deep in bunker in Hollywood.”

“Actors like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” He grabbed another macaron.

“Are you kidding? Look at you, you’re like,” she moved over to the couch and poked his now firm bicep, “not real. When they said you were going to be Darcy I was hoping that you would be much shorter and fatter in real life, and not as…” she noticed the way he was looking at her, listening carefully to everything she said and became immediately self-conscious.

 “Not as what?”

“Not as _Benn Williams_ in real life. I mean you’re all… Hollywood now, but you were still pretty hot when you got here all ‘off duty’ with your scowl and your pubey beard. You were Henry Jones, for god’s sake!’

He raised his eyebrows, so the beard _was_ pubey.

“Well, I am flattered.”

“By what?” She shrieked impertinently, shoving a macaron in her mouth.

“You fancy me. Can’t say I blame you,” he grinned at her and she swallowed the macaron, drinking it down with a mouthful of coffee.

She eyed him up and down before making her judgement, “Mr Darcy, you’re not handsome enough to tempt me,” she winked, and he fell back on the sofa pretending that he had been shot.

“Right in the heart!” He laughed at her again, “that was brutal,” nodding as she gestured for another coffee and more macarons.

“I remember you being in that film with the sex change machine, straight to DVD job, I think…with that girl, the one who’s in that big American thing now.” She clicked her fingers trying to remember, “Amelia Hunt…I loved it! The amount of times I’ve sat here watching that film is ridiculous.”

“Really?” he looked at her with more than a hint of surprise on his face.

“Yes!” She took a mouthful of coffee, “might have had a bit of an inappropriate crush on you in that actually…”

He raised his eyebrow at her, as if waiting for an explanation, and she ploughed on.

“I don’t know what it was, you were just so _delicious_ in it.”

He laughed, “I don’t think I have ever been called ‘delicious’ before.” She rolled her eyes at him as she took a large bite of a biscuit. “Well I’m glad someone appreciated it, even if it truly was a terrible film!” He looked at her derisively, “I was convinced it was going to be my big break!”

“I think it was… I mean, it was only a few years after that when you were in everything.”

“A few years is a long time as an actor without a job,” he finished his coffee and placed the mug down on the table, carefully avoiding the tower of books. “Matthew was very good to me with Praise to the Skies, my audition was shocking.”

Benn eyed her from across the room; there was something that he wanted to ask her, but he was hesitant. Maybe it was too soon, too personal; he would be asking her to reveal probably a little more of herself than she would like. He would pose the question, he thought, she could always tell him to fuck off.

“Are you two still… y’know…I’m sorry if I’m taking liberties, I just wondered after what we talked about…”

“After I had three gins and half a bottle of wine?”

“Well, quite.”

She looked up at him quickly, glared at him for a brief second before softening.

“I can’t explain it, so I don’t even try to.” She paused for a moment and eyeballed him thoroughly, her eyes questioning; “do you think I’m a terrible person for sleeping with a married man? Because you can judge, I won’t judge you for judging.”

“I’m not judging you at all,” he said softly. “I’m not really the best advert for matrimony at all.” he looked up from under his Darcy curls before his gaze fell to the floor. “The stuff they wrote…about Madeleine…about _me_ …it wasn’t true.”

He fell silent for a moment and she could tell that he was ruminating on it. She remembered the horrible headlines, the death throes of the marriage plastered all over the newspapers, the paparazzi shots of Benn emerging red-eyed and bedraggled from a hotel in France, the photos of the elfin blonde actress wearing large over-sized glasses holding a smoothie and walking from her house on Venice Beach, images of Madeleine and the girls marching stoically through the airport.

She couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like to have had the eyes of the world focused on the disintegration of your marriage. It was true that the Darcy family received press attention, but not at the same level as Benn Williams, whose every move it seemed was documented and reported and published. There had even been a story popping up on her phone this morning, an anonymous source commenting on how he was now so fat that he was having to be strapped in his breeches, alongside a picture of him shovelling red velvet cake into his mouth.

“‘Maybe the most important thing you should know about me is that I don’t believe things I read in the paper, or in the sidebar of shame,” her voice was gentle, a comforting warm hit of air on a cold winters day.

He brightened, the smile on his face restored, “me neither.”

They talked until she was unable to stifle her yawns anymore, he reached for his coat, his car keys jangling in the pocket.

 “So…same time tomorrow?” He questioned tentatively, wanting to spend more time in the room in the tower rather than alone in his hotel room.

 “It’s a date,” she smiled warmly, leaning in to give him a hug, which turned into an awkward kiss on the cheek from him and laughter from her.

Getting into his car, Benn Williams took a moment to look back at Pemberley as it faded into the distance, he could see the lights of Lizzy’s flat illuminated at the very top of the house from his position speeding down the curve of the driveway. It had been the strangest of evenings, but one of the most enjoyable ones that he had spent in a while.


	19. Elizabeth - 1816

The screams echoed down the corridor. Elizabeth – her face red with effort, her hair matted and mussed from the twelve hours of labour – shouted out in pain. Darcy had tried to follow Ellen into the room and was pushed back, she begged Staughton to take the master away, this was not the place for him right now. He slumped on the chair outside the room, refusing to move, even when the screams and cries became too much for him and he thought he might go mad with the frustration of being so useless. The sun dappled across the gallery, then faded into the horizon, the corridor turned dark; a maid came with a candle and some coffee, the moon rose in the night sky, then came dawn and still he remained.

The baby did not cry.

Darcy saw the small body covered over in the white sheet and the look of fear and anguish on his wife’s face, Dr Jeffries shouted for him to be removed from the room, but he refused to go. Ellen was trying to push him away, but then he heard a cry. A small cry. Was he going mad? He turned around to see Dr Jeffries wrapping another baby in a blanket. Ellen looked at him, shocked, but with a relief sweeping over her, revealing itself on her face as she was handed the child.

“It’s a girl,” she said, handing the precious newborn to her father. Darcy looked at his daughter; she had Elizabeth’s eyes and his dark hair, and he was immediately and overwhelmingly in love with her. He took her over to his wife, who looked completely drained and he presented the baby, who was mewling like a new pup. Elizabeth, shaking with cold, exhausted and in pain, turned away and buried her head in the pillow.

Elizabeth looked around at the grandeur of her room, the printed paper on the walls, the wool rugs, the gilt dresser, the canopy – stitched with gold and silver thread - that stretched all the way to the ceiling. But all she could see everywhere she looked was the small body, wrapped up in a sheet as if to be thrown away.  She had heard Dr Jeffries asking a maid to dispose of the bloodied sheet and she had howled, a low frantic moan, pulling at the covers, begging to see him, hoping and wishing that her love alone would be enough to bring him back to life. Reluctantly they allowed it, despite Darcy’s objections, and brought him to her wrapped in a pale blue blanket. He had the longest eyelashes she had ever seen, the same long tapered fingers shared by his oldest brother, and the Darcy chin. He was perfect. Stroking his face, so soft and so cold, she held him close to try and warm him up. She sat there for a long time, softly whispering lullabies and kissing the top of his head until they came and took him away.

Darcy arranged for Samuel Joshua Darcy, named by his mother, to be placed in the family mausoleum at St Peter’s Church in Lambton; it was something not usually done in cases such as these, but he felt that it was the proper resting place for his son and he arranged for an appropriate service and a marker to signify the existence of the child they had lost. He had never expected that the most recent pregnancy would have ended like this, but he understood that they had been very fortunate to not have lost both children, or even Elizabeth herself. He remembered, all too well, the death of Princess Charlotte the winter before, where both the Prince Regent’s daughter and grandchild were both dead after a long labour. In this instance the Darcys were fortunate, they were lucky indeed.

The baby girl, who had still not been named, was now a month old and Elizabeth had still not displayed any interest in her or the boys, who she avoided whenever she could. She kept to her rooms, which were stifling hot and unaired, and was rarely seen outside in the grounds. Darcy had held her, cradled her, wrapped his arms around her and caressed her face, but nothing could fill the hollow emptiness inside of her as she wept for the loss of her child. He didn’t know how to help her or what he could do, it was as if his own feelings and emotions were disregarded; his wife consumed by an all-encompassing grief that was devouring her and he did not know how he was going to get her back. Elizabeth stood by the window of her rooms, hiding in between the long, heavy curtains and the condensation that had built up on the rectangular panes of glass. She pressed her forehead to the cleansing coolness and prayed silently for a release from this pain. This was the worst of times.

Mrs Reynolds had employed the services of a wet nurse for feeding the baby as Mrs Darcy, still unwell with nerves, was unable to feed the baby herself. It was a peculiar time, the lady thought as she swaddled the youngest Darcy in cotton blankets and held her as she once did Miss Georgiana. Mrs Reynolds though was worried about her mistress – she had not eaten properly since the birth, had not dressed or moved from her rooms and showed no interest in the baby at all. It was concerning, although it was sad to lose one babe, they were fortunate to have one who was beautiful and healthy.  Yes, she thought, these were peculiar times indeed.

The following morning the household woke to the shouts of Ellen ringing out around the Bright Gallery, her voice carrying to the opposite end of the corridor, the crystal ringing.

Darcy woke suddenly and knew that something was very wrong.

Elizabeth was gone.


	20. 2001

# PAST

“So, we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

F Scott Fitzgerald

 

# 2001:

The winter air was thick with cold and Lizzy felt the ice in her lungs as she climbed the steep hill from the car park and up to the house. She didn’t think she would ever get used to parking her car where the tennis courts once were, or not being able to park on the driveway, which was now blocked off with two very official looking removable posts. The transition from family home to tourist attraction was going smoothly for the house, which was enjoying a lavish and careful programme of restoration. There had been a serious repainting of the window frames, a thorough tending of the gardens and the deepest of spring cleans.

Inside pictures were being restored and items rediscovered after a full cataloguing of the attics, including the rediscovery of a trunk of authentic and delicate gowns from the early 19th century, some of which, according to their labels, had belonged to Elizabeth Darcy herself. Of course, there had been a massive fuss made about the dresses, which had been acquired by the V&A to be restored and then form the basis of a new exhibition. Lizzy recognised a sparkly red gown with gold thread as one that she had dressed up in as a child, parading down the halls and posing for pictures that Maggie took with her new polaroid camera, before discarding the dress at the foot of the staircase and running upstairs to play skittles in the long gallery.

The hill was steep; much steeper than she had remembered it being when dragging her sledge up it after careering down it during the winter, Mr Staughton calling to her from the top, promising hot chocolate and buttered seed cake whilst Winston watched from his study. The cold was taking her breath away and she struggled for moment to reach the top, the icy wind blowing in from the peaks causing a chill in her bones. She pulled her coat in tightly around her, adjusting her mittens as she dragged three shopping bags up the deceptive incline.

Lizzy had always thought herself slightly resilient to the cold of a Pemberley winter, but this year was particularly harsh; she blamed it on her hormones. She was now five months pregnant but felt as if she was about to simultaneously burst and vomit. For the first three months she had continually thrown up, which hadn’t made the commute to Manchester every other morning particularly pleasant. There had also been a smell in the lecture hall of her class on a Thursday which made the baby grumble and her stomach churn with nausea, the lecturer had been very polite about it and given her a bin to prevent any further vomiting occurrences disturbing the rest of the class.

The Doctor had confirmed the pregnancy early, there were benefits to being able to pay for a private consultation in Harley Street if you needed to, and she had spent the weekend holed up in the house on Upper Grosvenor Street pretending everything was okay. Imogen had been bouncing around, giddy and dancing with glee singing Tiny Dancer  - or at least the two phrases she could remember; Carol was fussing and cussing about the nanny, Jacinta, who spoke too much Spanish; Hugh stormed about the house complaining about the noise whilst added to it in loud well enunciated tones; Charlie was home for a few days from Oxford, with a few pals from the rowing team and they hoo-haa’ed and drank. Lizzy sat there in the middle of it all, feeling like the calm eye of the storm during a devastating hurricane. 

“Tu madre está loca, Lady Lizzy”, Jacinta said one lonely dark night as they sat in the kitchen together, both unable to sleep in the house where silence fell like lead after ten pm.

“Ella no es mi madre,” she frowned, stumbling with GCSE Spanish and a smile at the older woman, who passed her a small sweet biscuit wrapped in waxy paper.

“You must eat,” she said softly. “The sickness will pass, but you must get stronger for the baby.”

Lizzy looked up, scared, unsure how the small woman with almond shaped eyes and olive skin knew her secret.

“Cómo?”

“I have had many babies… I know the signs,” she said. “You mustn’t be scared of what is to come, you are fuerte… strong…and you are clever.” Jacinta placed her hand gently on Lizzy’s shoulder, “I am a firm believer in this, Lady Lizzy, donde hay gana, hay maña…how you say… where there is a will, there is a way… always in my family we say this. My great great great grandmother she raised three sisters alone after their father was gone. She pressed on always striving, always better. You are like this too, I think.”

Jacinta padded down the stairs to her little flat in the basement of the house, crooning a soft melody in Spanish, the words rolling off her tongue. Lizzy pondered and sipped on her milk, taking the time to delicately dunk the small biscuits, watching as they soaked up the liquid, never faltering. She didn’t know what kind of mother she was going to be, but she did know that she was going to do her best. And Matthew Wickham? Well, he could just get lost.

 

“Hi there, I was wondering if you would be able to help me,” Lizzy asked the kindly faced woman at the Student Advice desk on the second day of term.

“I will try,” the woman smiled; she had a warm Mancunian accent, the badge on her lanyard said that her name was Barbara.

“I was told that I needed to register a name change to ensure that it’s correct on my transcripts?” Lizzy had been dreading this day, it felt so pretentious. She had loved being able to coast as Lizzy Darcy, getting the odd smirk from an English Lit undergrad or a glance of recognition from the occasional lecturer, but mostly she had been anonymous at Manchester.

Barbara took Lizzy’s name and student ID and begin to tippity-tap into the keyboard; they had only recently moved over to a new computer system and she wasn’t used to it yet, preferring the old-fashioned methods of cards and files.

“Right, so I will need your marriage certificate, have you brought it with you?”

“Marriage certificate?”

“Yes, your marriage certificate… for your change of name?” She glanced down at the protruding bump between them.

“Oh,” Lizzy wrapped her coat around her tightly, “no, I haven’t got married…Uhm…Well…”

“Have you changed it by deed-poll or been legally adopted?” Barbara’s tone was getting ever so slightly more official with each word she spoke.

 Lizzy reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope that contained the letter and legal information from her uncle’s office, which documented the change in her name from simply ‘Miss Elizabeth Darcy’ to ‘Lady Elizabeth Darcy’, the title to which she had to answer to now she was the daughter of a Duke and not merely the granddaughter of one. Barbara scanned through the letter, before taking it to a colleague, who squinted over it before looking at Elizabeth as though she was bonkers. Barbara came back and placed the letter back on the desk, taking time to fold it flat.

“Did you get this for Christmas? Because I know it says you’re a Lady, but those gift packs aren’t legally binding, we couldn’t update it on your degree certificate… do you understand, love?”

“Yes, I do understand that, but this is… this is real,” she smiled politely at Barbara, who proceeded to look at her as if she was a simpleton. “Honestly, I have the card for my Uncle’s office and you can speak to them and they will confirm it… I wouldn’t usually have bothered, but apparently it’s a legal requirement.”

“Well, yes,” Barbara grumbled as she took the card and then retreated to her colleague, who phoned the number, both women stood looking at her from across the sea of office furniture. The smaller woman looked up at Barbara and nodded, Lizzy could see her visibly redress herself and she returned to the counter with an ingratiating smile.

“All of that seems to be in order, _Lady_ Elizabeth, so I will get your records updated and we will reissue last semesters transcripts and send them out to your home address, which is…” She looked down with squinting eyes through the thick lenses of her heavy brown spectacles, “…Pemberley?”

“Yes.”

Barbara looked at the young woman with the frizzy hair and heavy eyeliner, wondered what had happened that she was here now all alone with no husband and a baby on the way. Her face softened, and she glanced at Elizabeth with a thoughtful and kind look.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Lizzy wondered what this could possibly be, hesitantly she said, “Yes, of course.”

“Did Colin Firth _really_ walk about in that wet shirt all day?”

 

Lizzy reached the top of the hill and hurried towards the porch, desperate to get inside. Instinctively she turned left, before remembering and turning right to enter the house via the staff entrance. She went into the estate office – this had, thankfully, not changed – although Winston’s office was now occupied by the House Manager. She left a cream cake on Maggie’s desk and a packet of Mini Cheddars on Phil’s – he didn’t care for cake, but she had come to learn that he had a penchant for cheesy biscuits. He was on the phone but gave her a cheerful thumbs up as he continued his conversation.

Carefully she placed a tin of posh biscuits on top of the staff sign-in sheets – the people who had led the Pemberley tours before were all kept on by the HHS and she was happy that there were still so many familiar faces, as well as lots of new ones. Winston had always bought biscuits for the small team, always looked after the people who loved the house, small gestures like handwritten cards at Christmas, a picnic party in the Summer, and she knew that wherever he was, that in the grand scheme of things, he had made the right decision to pass the house onto people who would look after better than they ever could have done.

There had been small changes, ones that she hadn’t noticed at first – such as how red the carpet on the grand staircase was now it had been deep-cleaned, and how colourful the hideous Mortlake tapestries in the entrance hall were now years of dust and grime had been removed by professionals, rather than simply being vacuumed by Mrs Reynolds with a pair of old tights over the end of the Henry.  As she reached the door to her flat, she took a deep breath, fully aware that it would be freezing; dumping her shopping on the floor, she ran through to the bathroom, not noticing the figure sitting on the couch.

The woman waited for her to return, eyed her up and down as she walked out of the icy bathroom wiping her hands on a similarly cold towel, watched as she removed her coat and turned on the kettle.

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

The cut-glass boarding school tones seemed hideously out of place coming from the lofty, slender woman with pink dreadlocks and a nose ring. Lizzy was astonished to see the woman standing there, having only ever seen her on photographs at Maggie’s, where she wrapped her arms around Matthew with Big Smiles and city landscapes. She was much taller than she had imagined and had a frostiness that was incongruous with her general appearance.

“Cara?” She crossed over with her hand outstretched, the origins of Lady Liz beginning right now in this moment. “So nice to meet you finally… I have heard so much about you.”

Cara Dalhousie did not take Lizzy’s hand, nor did she smile or move, instead she stood as still as a stone statue.  

“Was that before or after you fucked my boyfriend?”

Cara looked at her with cold, dead eyes. Her pupils dilated and massive like a great white shark getting ready to strike its prey.  “Or was it during…did he tell you all about me when he was taking you roughly from behind?” She giggled, but there was nothing funny about this. Cara Dalhousie was not used to people playing with her toys, she trilled. “I mean, he wouldn’t look at your face, would he? Little frizzy thing, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Cara travelled across the room like lightning, “this bullshit might work on Matthew, but it sure as well won’t with me,” she hissed. “I know your kind, Elizabeth Darcy; pretending to be all innocent on the outside…”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Lizzy said firmly. She felt cornered, wanted to push this leggy stranger out of the way and run down the stairs.

“That.”

Cara pointed at the small rounded bump slightly protruding from under the heavy jumper. Lizzy pulled her coat around her protectively and turned away slightly.

“My fiancé’s baby, I’m guessing.” She spoke with a sneer; a condescending tone mixed with a sadistic trill on her breath.

There was silence; it was filled with doubt and betrayal and rage. When Matthew had returned from Derbyshire after the funeral, he was different, and she knew that something had happened. It hadn’t taken much to get the information from him, a weeping confession eked out over the course of three days. He was always rubbish at lying.  She made him promise never to contact this Lizzy again and he agreed, not wanting to lose her. Cara Dalhousie firmly believed that the best way to pretend something didn’t happen is always to ignore it. She hadn’t meant to read the email, but it was there in his inbox; an important message from his sister who felt that he should know. It was as if the weight of it dropped right through her, because fucking someone else was something she could forgive – they were young, and love was fluid – but a baby? Well, that was something completely different. A baby gave the betrayal arms and legs and screams in the night.

Lizzy looked down at the floor and nodded before looking up under heavy eyes; she felt unshielded, but she wasn’t going to show it.

 “You really are ridiculous, aren’t you?” Cara sniggered. “Were you going to keep this a secret? Do you have any idea what this will do to your father’s reputation?”

“My father knows,” Lizzy said firmly. “He’s happy to welcome a new Darcy into the world, and his opinion is the only one that matters to me.”

“A new Wickham, you mean…that’s will be fun for the press.” She raised an eyebrow, a sadistic chortle escaping her lips. “But what about your stepmother? Your little sister? Your brothers? Don’t you care what your carelessness has done?” She looked down at her, circling like a hungry hyena, waiting for her to fall, to show any sign of weakness. “I mean, it’s obvious you engineered this whole shitstorm and conveniently left it too late to have it sucked out of you.”

Lizzy paused for a moment, digesting the words. The truth was she had thought about it, how much easier it would be to not do this, but when it came down to it she hasn’t been able to, and the thought of not going ahead with it was scarier than the reality of becoming a mum.

“You know, I never understood what he saw in you. You’re mediocre at best, Darcy.” She looked at Lizzy, tilting her head to one side. “He told me about that afternoon, how he felt sorry for you; took pity on you and you practically threw yourself at him. Did your grandad never tell you that it’s very bad form to fuck the staff?”

Lizzy swallowed hard, bit her tongue; she had a whole barrage of weapons that she could fire at Cara Dalhousie, but there was no point; no need to cause any more pain. She softened slightly, knowing that for all her anger and insults, Cara was simply a girl whose boyfriend had hurt her.

“I know you are upset about this,” she said, reaching out to touch Cara on the arm. She flinched. “…but you are taking it out on the wrong person. I didn’t cheat on you, he did… and you can do better than that.”

“You let him cheat on me!” she raised her voice, then composed herself. “You facilitated it, and now we have _this_ ,” she pointed at the bump.

“ _We_ don’t have anything,” Lizzy said with a resoluteness in her voice. “I have never asked for your involvement.”

There was a moment of silence and the two women eyed each other up from across the room. Lizzy had always been taught to stand up for herself and she was not going to be bullied by a woman who was taking the moral high ground on behalf of her cheating boyfriend.

“Your issue is more to do with Matthew, and not with me. If he wants to be involved in this baby’s life then there is nothing I can do to stop it, and neither can you. I am sorry it happened this way, believe me this is not the way I envisaged it happening.”

Cara was used to getting her own way. It had been the same since she was a small child and was a character flaw that had seeped like spilled ink into her adult personality. Matthew always did as he was told; always complied with her wants, needs and desires. That was what made him such a perfect partner – she set out to get him and now she had him, but the stone in her bespoke leather shoe was Elizabeth Darcy and her unborn baby. She knew full well that Matthew longed to be involved, wanted to move back north for a while now his career was more secure. Cara didn’t want this; Lizzy Darcy could stay in her mouldy old manor house in Derbyshire, but she wasn’t going to be schlepping up here every other weekend to visit a brat.

“I’ll tell you what is going to happen, _Elizabeth_ ,” she intonated carefully. “You will see Matthew now and you will tell him that you don’t want him to be part of the baby’s life. I think that will be the best for all parties concerned.”

 “I will do nothing of the sort,” she swallowed hard. Cara’s features were hardened now, the veneer of spiritual assuredness failing as she realised that she was not going to get what she wanted. Lizzy turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen, shouting back over her shoulder. “Now unless you have something nice to say, I would like you to leave.” She clattered the teacups and cupboards for extra effect. “And for future reference, this area of the house is out of bounds to the general public.”

Cara left, her footprints heavy on the oak floorboards, her exit signalled by a loud slam of the door.  Lizzy took a moment to regain her composure before sitting on the floor of the kitchen, holding her belly tightly and feeling the baby kick sharply in protest.

“No, little one, I don’t like her either,” she whispered, before getting to her feet and putting her shopping away.

*

It was nearly eight o’clock when Maggie knocked on the door tentatively and walked into the small living room. She had helped her friend decorate in a warm yellow colour a few months before, but the colour did nothing to brighten up this dark evening. She knew that the letter she held in her hand did not contain the words that Lizzy wanted, and she was reluctant to hand it over. Matthew had already left a few hours before, chasing a stomping Cara as she headed towards her Range Rover. They were arguing; shrill expletives being scattered about, following by softer apologies, before escalating into shouts and screams on the driveway of the stables. Gary, the head ranger, had come out of the office and demanded in his bellowing northern tones that they take their disagreements elsewhere, and they had sped off towards the driveway and then back down the M6 towards London.

The room was freezing, and Maggie made two steaming mugs of coffee before lighting a fire in the large fireplace that dominated the room. Lizzy was cocooned in a blanket on the couch, her head resting on a pillow, her closed eyes puffy and red from where she had been crying. She noticed that the mantel was covered in new pictures – photos of her friends from university, a picture of her little sister Imogen cuddling their even smaller brother Joe just after he was born in May, an old polaroid of Maggie and Lizzy cuddling on the grand staircase on Christmas Day, and a newer photograph of Winston from a few months before he died. She smiled sadly, looking over at the couch where Lizzy looked drawn and tired. Looking back, she noticed a scan picture that she hadn’t seen before, the image was clear, and she could see arms and legs now, rather than the indecipherable blur that she always pretended she could identify as a baby.

“Did you find out what you’re having?”

She plonked herself down on the couch and passed Lizzy her mug of coffee from the table. The room was beginning to warm up now, the condensation on the arched windows starting to dissipate, Lizzy leaned over, breathed on the glass and wrote ‘girl’ as she stared forlornly out of the window and out onto the lake, which was beginning to freeze over.

“You’re having a girl?” Maggie smiled happily. She had really wanted a niece, had already bought some little pink bootees and a tiny romper dotted with embroidered flowers. “Mum will be so happy.”

Lizzy smiled wanly, “I’m going to be able to do this, aren’t I?” Her eyes betrayed her insecurity, and she looked panicked, unsure, young.

“Yes,” Maggie said firmly, placing her arm on her friend’s shoulder. “Of course, you are.”

“I’m exhausted already, and she isn’t even here!”

It had been an emotional day and she hadn’t felt prepared to deal the onslaught from Cara who, quite frankly, was a lot worse than she imagined. She wasn’t sure if it was the shouting, or the horrible realisation that maybe it had meant more to her than it had to Matthew. Afterwards there had been little time to talk about it, and the few conversations they had had when he was back in London were stilted and empty.  

 “You have to remember that your great-gran raised two children and ran the whole estate all by herself, and she didn’t have me like you do,” Maggie hugged her friend close in the stillness as a chill ran through her and she shuddered dramatically.  

Lizzy felt a smile on across her face, Maggie was right, she was much better off than lots of people in her position and she wasn’t going to forget her privilege. She lived in this huge flat; it was ridiculously cold and up three flights of stairs, but she didn’t have to pay any rent or bills as these were covered by the estate, and she had a generous allowance each month from her inheritance from Winston, who had ensured that she would be well looked after. She knew that she could afford to comfortably look after herself and the baby, as well as continuing her studies – she even had Maggie and Jean over at the stables who would help her if she needed. She didn’t need Matthew Wickham and his stupid face to help her; she understood why Cara was angry, but it was Matthew who was at fault here and she was quite happy to let him into her bed every night, maybe she should try making him be accountable for his bullshit, maybe that would help her align her chakras or whatever crap it was that she needed to do.

Maggie could see the thoughts running through Lizzy’s head as she formulated her plan, and then she saw her face as she noticed the letter from Matthew sitting on the table; she knew his writing immediately, the spindly but firm letters imprinted on the envelope – ‘Lizard’. She had hated the nickname, given to her by Charlie and Matthew one early teenage summer as she spent almost a fortnight basking in the sunshine near the lake; the name had stuck and by the end of August even Winston was calling her it. Seeing it on the envelope she was cross that he dared to recall this earlier affection, annoyed that he dared to play on their history together. She picked up the envelope, felt the weight of the expensive paper in her hands, the inky scrawl of her name across the paper in his handwriting, and threw it on the fire.

“Lizzy, what have you done that for?” Maggie jumped up and tried to pull the letter from the blaze with the poker, but the envelope was already ablaze, the final fragments already disappearing into the flames.

“If he had anything of worth to say, he would be here saying it to my face rather than sending a letter. The only time your brother has ever sent me letters is when he either needs to lie about something or has bad news; I imagine that letter contains both.”

Maggie had always known how her brother had felt about Lizzy, how he had pandered and flattered her for most of high school; how he had taken her to prom and she had dumped him halfway through the night to go to a club with another group of friends. He had spent the last year of high school pining after her, until the night of Carol and Hugh’s wedding when she got horrendously drunk, confessed that she had always secretly loved him and then tried to kiss him, instead vomiting over his shoes before passing out.

Maggie had put her to bed, but it had been Matthew who stayed with her all night, making sure she was okay. In the morning when she woke up, she couldn’t remember what had happened, or any confession of love, and she was confused as he looked at her differently. He decided there and then that he couldn’t spend forever waiting for Lizzy Darcy to fall in love with him, and he slowly removed himself from her life bit by bit. Maggie was always careful to defend her brother, most of the time he was usually in the wrong, but this time she wasn’t sure.

 

The atmosphere in the car was icy. Cara held onto the steering wheel firmly, her eyes locked on the road ahead. She hadn’t spoken to him yet, she probably wouldn’t for a few days now. He needed to learn his lesson.

Matthew stared out of the window. The world flashed by him as the landscape transformed from the built-up industrialised centres to the rolling pastures of the countryside, as the day began to fade, and everything dimmed, illuminated by streetlights, deep inside he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time; happy and hopeful. He had told Lizzy all of this in the letter he had written in his childhood bedroom, scribbling down his excitement and wonder and love with a smile on his face and an image in his head of how it would be.

He could feel the joy painted across his heart.


	21. 2002

Hugh Darcy thought that little Harriet was the cutest little button he had ever seen, he could see the family resemblance – the grey eyes, the sharp chin, the upturned nose - but he could also see that she had inherited her father’s darker countenance too.  She was now six months old, shrieking and laughing as he bounced her on his knee. His own youngest son, Joe, was not quite two and Hugh felt every one of his forty-seven years as he chased the boy around, he hadn’t remembered it being this hard when Charlie and Lizzy were younger. Harriet was trussed up in the family Christening gown and had been baptised at St Thomas’s Church in Lambton. As the visiting Duke, there had been a bit of local press and the photographer, Harold, from the Matlock Chronicle had been sent over for a few pictures. They had shared a surreptitious cigarette behind the church before Hugh had organised his family into well-posed pictures. They retreated to Pemberley for the reception, and it had taken generous cheque and the loan of a rare, but hideous set of Sevres porcelain for Brian Whitfield, the HHS house manager, to agree to the Darcys using two rooms in the house for their family party.

Lizzy watched as her dad continued the pageantry and ceremony in the grand opulence of the Dining Room, surrounded by portraits of their ancestors on every wall. Hugh loved playing host; it was something he was very good at, and he walked around the room making small talk, throwing compliments and generally being his charming self. She stood at the edge of the room, the ceiling was so high, the plasterwork so intricate and impressive that she didn’t know how the idea of it had even been conceived at the turn of the nineteenth century. Fitzwilliam Darcy was the man responsible for the grand room with its twin chandeliers and views over the garden,

The doors to the Stag Parlour, the historic man cave next door were open too, and the square room which had been home to treason and plotting was decorated with twinkling lights, a table decorated with a pale pink tablecloth and in the centre was a very regal, iced cake standing three tiers high. Guests mingled between the two rooms and out in the garden through the French door which stood open, and bow-tied waiters were dotted around the room seamlessly serving canapes and drinks. The noise of shoes on the oak floorboards, the smells emanating from the kitchen, and the soft clink of crystal glasses being filled with champagne seemed to imbue the room with a magical feeling of life and excitement; it was as if Pemberley was putting on a well-rehearsed performance, one that it had enacted time and time again.

There was a string quartet in the corner and Lizzy was impressed at how much her dad had spent to celebrate her daughter’s birth; when she had told him that she was pregnant, he had been reasonably relaxed about the situation, although obviously worried for her. Carol had been bitchy and disapproving, refusing to allow Lizzy to visit that Christmas. Hugh had negotiated a tense armistice between the two women, but relations were still frosty.

Uncle Jeremy was here with his wife, Jude. He had offered to let her complete her LPC at his firm the following year and invited her and Harriet to stay with them at Longbourn for as long as she wished. Aunty Julia, now bleached blonde and with skin like creosote, brought a celebratory bottle of Moet, which she drank in the corner with Aunt Sybil. Imogen, her blonde curls bigger than her head, was running wild around the room, bashing into things and twirling about under the sparkling chandelier, Lizzy ran over and picked her sister up, spinning her around and hearing her laughter, which was louder than the elegant music. They ran off in the direction of the Stag Parlour and later could be seen rolling down the sloping hills at the top end of the lawn as Carol tutted disapprovingly

Jean Wickham posed for pictures with her granddaughter, who looked so much like her late husband that sometimes she became overwhelmed with the remembrance that he wasn’t here to share these special moments with her. John had died when Matthew had been a similar age and this celebration had upset her for two reasons. Firstly, her son was not here to take his place at the altar, to claim this beautiful baby as his own; secondly, Harriet was a Darcy, she was not and never would be a Wickham. Jean felt as if the child’s heritage was being erased for the sake of keeping up appearances and it made her feel sad to think that her only grandchild would not bear her father’s name.  

Maggie played the role of godmother beautifully and she had looked at Peter wistfully, wondering when they would have a baby of their own. He had grumbled off and gone to get food as she walked around the room with Harriet, pointing out the portraits of King James II, Lady Mary of Derbyshire and Hortense Holland, the baby had smiled and squirmed in her arms, and they ended up sitting on a bench outside in the summer sunshine, Maggie feeding her niece and cuddling her under the blanket. She had text Matthew that morning, letting him know that it was the baby’s special day today and to thank him for the gift he had secretly sent. She had felt sorry for her brother, knowing that he wanted to know his daughter, wanted to be the father he himself had never had, but he feared the wrath of both Lizzy and Cara. The only person who would miss out in all of this would be Harriet. Maggie nuzzled the now-sleeping baby, inhaling her warm, milky smell and hugging her tight.

 

 

Steve Carter felt out of place mixing with, as the rest of the staff put it, the upper crust. The stiffness of his shirt made him feel uncomfortable, and he had felt completely gormless standing up at the altar holding a candle and promising to be Harriet’s godfather. He didn’t even believe in God. The day of her birth still troubled him – he had been completing his first Duty Manager overnight shift, staying in the small staff flat that occupied two rooms in the corner of the second floor and watching The Sopranos, when he heard the radio alarm in the long gallery and hurried over to find Lady Liz dressed in her pyjamas standing at the top of the stairs, water all over the floor. He had initially thought that there had been a leak until she shouted at him and he realised that she was in labour. Steve had quickly raised the alarm at the gatehouse, Don had driven up in the minibus and they had all raced to the hospital, Steve remembered an episode of Casualty and hoped that he wouldn’t have to deliver the baby. He had heard that blood was horrible to get out of clothes and car upholstery and he knew that as one of the more junior members of staff that this job would inevitably fall to him.

When they had reached the hospital, everyone assumed he was the father and bundled him into the delivery room despite his protestations. It was only an hour later when Harriet Darcy arrived, kicking and screaming, and Steve passed out. Despite this, when Lady Liz - ‘Steve, please call me Lizzy, you have seen my lady bits’ – had asked him to be Harriet’s godfather he had accepted and bought his new suit from Burtons, with a bit of help from his mum who would cut out the pictures from the Matlock Chronicle and keep them safe, bragging to her friends at Lambton WI about her youngest son being the little Darcy girl’s godfather.

Lizzy’s bright yellow polka dot dress might have gained a few grass stains, her sister’s pale pink skirt and expensive chiffon top might have gained a few more. As they walked back towards the garden entrance hand in hand, laughing and chatting, she could see Carol admonishing their father and pointing at them both. Turning around, they walked off towards the Orangery, deciding that smelling pretty flowers and playing the fountain was much more fun than being told off by the grown-ups.

“Are you excited for school, Imo?” Lizzy asked, prising a daffodil from her sister’s hand.

“No, I don’t want to go to school,” Imogen pouted, jutting out her chin in the same way that she did herself.

“But it will be exciting, you will get to have fun and learn new things and then Mummy, or Daddy or Jacinta will pick you up and you can tell them all about it.”

“Mummy says that I will be sleeping at school and I don’t want to.”

Lizzy looked at the girl questioningly, surely, they weren’t sending her away to board…No, that couldn’t be right, she had only just turned four in February, there must be some misunderstanding.

“I’m sure that’s not what Mummy means,” she soothed. “What do you think of Harriet?”

“She’s very small. Joe is boring, he just cries all the time and makes Mummy cross.”

“Do you know that you are Harriet’s Aunty, Imogen?”

“I’m Aunty Imo?” The little girl’s face looked confused. “But I cannot be an Aunty, I am too little.”

“I think you are super big now! Look,” she said picking her up and lifting her high, “you can reach the top of the fountain, only the biggest girls can do that!”

“I’m the biggest girl!!” She shrieked.

Lizzy swung her back down again and Imogen looked up at her beaming, “Lizard, I promise that I will be the bestest Aunty ever to my Harriet and I will love her forever and ever.” She held out her little finger to be shaken. “Pinky promise.”

“Pinky promise,” Lizzy smiled. “Now, shall we go and get cake?”

Harriet ran off screaming in the direction of the house and Lizzy was surprised to see her dad emerge from the side of the Orangery, where he had obviously been having a cigarette, hiding from the disapproving gaze of Carol. He walked over and placed his arm gently on her shoulder before kissing the top of her head.

“Thank you, Dad.” The sat together on the bench outside the Orangery, the scent of the camelias within seeping into the air.  “I’m really grateful.”

“My pleasure, _Lady_ Lizzy.” He gave her a little nudge and she giggled.

 “I don’t think I will ever get used to that.”

“Me neither,” he laughed. “I went to Harrods last week and the man behind the counter kept calling me ‘Your Grace’, I find it fascinating.”

“I find it fascinating that you go to Harrods for groceries,” she looked up at him and rolled her eyes. She knew it was more about Carol trying to maintain a certain level of appearance rather than her dad wanting to do the weekly shop at Harrods.

“How is Charlie with the new title? Earl of Berks!” She looked at her dad and then started to laugh uncontrollably. “I can’t think of anything more fitting.”

“You know full well that it’s Earl of BARK-shire,” he corrected with his serious face, before laughing too. “Although, Earl of BERKshire, is probably more apt for your brother...” Hugh deep sighed, “oh look at us, Lizzy, renting rooms in our ancestral home. Did we do the right thing?”

Lizzy looked around the house, the summer months had produced another army of volunteers who swarmed upon the house daily; tidying, fixing, repairing, cleaning. They had made the right decision; Pemberley had to continue after they had gone and this way, it would.

“Somebody told me once that when the roots are deep, then you do not have to fear the wind,” she placed her arm through his as they stepped down to the south front of the house, “this was the right thing. Like a breeze that lets us spread ourselves about a bit.”

He gave her an unsure glance, “how much champagne have you had?”

“Not much,” she grinned. “I’m serious. We’re the Darcy family, and the very foundation of us is buried deep underneath the ground here. It always will be.”

“So, dearest daughter of mine, in your special and rather elegant round-about way you are saying we did do the right thing.”

“Yes, we did,” she smiled up at him. “Well apart from the curator who totally has it in for me. She’s a complete harridan; thinks I’m a horror, obviously, keeps sending snooty letters because I keep,” she looked at him knowingly, “smoking on the roof. Fire hazard, she says. Darcys have been smoking on the roof forever and never set fire to the place! Bloody Joyce.”

Hugh remembered a young woman called Joyce who used to work there when he was at Cambridge, she had been funny, battling him with her sharp wit and disregard for his position, treating him as a regular chap off the street. He had found it immensely refreshing and enjoyed their brief interludes, until the summer after graduation he had come home, and she wasn’t there anymore, gotten married and popped out some sprogs probably.

“It’s not Joyce Hutchinson, is it?”

“Yeah, I think that’s it,” she nodded with a curious expression on her face. “Do you know her?”

“Name rings a bell,” he said, knowing full well who Joyce Hutchinson was.

He took his daughter’s arm in his own and they went back to the party the long way around, chatting softly as they walked down the steps and ventured up familiar paths. On the lawn a few visitors, pointed and waved at the Duke, who they recognised from his portrait in the hallway, and he took his time to acknowledge them and welcome them to Pemberley.

From her vantage point in the library, Joyce Hutchinson saw Hugh Darcy for the first time in too long and she was disappointed that her heart still skipped a beat.


	22. 2004

The days were long in London, and not as much as Lizzy had thought they would have been. Uncle Jeremy worked her hard, knowing that he could get the best out of her whilst she was still hungry for it, but she truly knew in her heart of hearts that she wasn’t. It would have been different if she had been living in the city with friends, but she was commuting out each night back to Longbourn, her spare time filled with studying for the LPC, or tear-filled phone calls back to Derbyshire where she realised that she missed Harriet so much that her heart physically ached. Meanwhile Harriet, was having the time of her life, staying at the Stables with Aunt Maggie and Grammy, who doted on her; she was even learning how to ride on her small pony, Peanut, courtesy of Maggie’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, Peter. As Mark piled another binder of paperwork on top of her desk, Lizzy sighed loudly at him, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“We’re all heading for a drink, fancy it?”

The bar was smoky and crowded, the dull thud of music vibrating underfoot – it was half six on a Friday night in Soho, the room filled with every type of person you could imagine, and all pushing for attention at the bar. Catching the attention of the pierced friendly girl behind the bar, she ordered a large vodka and coke and retreated over to the cigarette machine. If Lizzy was getting drunk, then she was planning on smoking at least ten Marlboro Lights and making it worth her while; she took a large swig of her drink, feeling the delicious, familiar warmth of it rush down her throat. She hadn’t had a proper drink like this since arriving in London and it was hitting the spot. In the corner were the small group from work – including Mark, who was busy chatting up a leggy blonde at the edge of the room.

Lighting her cigarette, she stood there observing for a moment; the dancefloor was full of people, gyrating, dancing to the loud thump-thump of the bass, a blue haze of cigarette smoke floating over the crush of the crowd, the faint breeze of perfumes, the pungent waft of aftershave, the push of freshly washed shirts and shiny fabrics moving against each other, and above all else, ringing out in the corner, she heard his voice. Over in the corner of the room, Matthew was surrounded by an entourage of friends; laughing, drinking, enjoying the success of his recent BAFTA nomination.

She could recognise his laugh anywhere and it felt sad somehow to be on the outside looking in. He had grown his hair out a bit longer than she was used to, had grown a stubbly beard, looking so different but so similar that she felt overwhelmed with it all. She hadn’t expected to feel like this, hadn’t expected to feel the prickle of anxiety run all over her back, hadn’t expected that seeing him again – for the first time since they had spent the afternoon together in the Lantern, for the first time since she made him a father – would make her feel so helpless as her heart thudded in her chest, almost to the beat of the music. Stubbing her cigarette out on the floor, she downed her drink and pushed her way out of the bar. The cool air of the early evening felt great against her face and she stood for moment, before getting her bearings and walking towards the tube.

“Lizzy!”

Her name echoed on the street, causing a few people walking to turn around and look before carrying on with their Friday night plans. She didn’t want to look back, taking a deep breath and carrying on walking.

“Lizzy!”

She stopped, nervous energy bursting along her spine like freshly popping corn. It would be weird to see him like this, and not as part of his group either, but more like an outsider stealing him away from his inner circle. They had always shared in the feast of their friendship, which had been the keystone on which their short relationship was based, and after being starved for so long she was eager to gorge herself on their shared memories.

 “Hey Lizard,” he said softly. “How’s the mother of my child?”

 

It was midnight when they stumbled back into Matthew’s flat, their inhibitions reduced by the copious number of cocktails that they had drunk in the Chiquito’s on Leicester Square, before they were politely asked to leave by the bouncer for causing too much noise. From there they had gone to a karaoke bar in the depths of the West End, singing terrible songs and dancing on the stage, and they had fallen into each other’s arms and kissed passionately on the street outside, until a kindly WPC asked them to move along and hailed them a cab. They had fallen into the house, barely opening the doors before leaving a trail of clothes to the bedroom.  The morning after was altogether different, she had tried to kiss him, and he hadn’t responded, making her feel small and flat. Grabbing her clothes and shoes, she left before eight am. He didn’t even get out of bed to wave her goodbye.

The lights were all on at Pemberley when she got home, Maggie had been to tidy the flat and had put a shepherd’s pie in the oven, waiting until she got back. Harriet was already fast asleep, and Lizzy went up, kissing her on the forehead and tucking the blanket up under her chin. Slumping on the sofa in her PJ’s and watching some crap on the tv, she grabbed a pile of unopened post, a small stack of bills and junk mail.  And then a soft lilac envelope addressed to her and Harriet in a beautifully handwritten script.

Lord and Lady Andrew Dalhousie

cordially invite you to celebrate the

happy union of their daughter

The Hon. Cara Louisa Dalhousie

& Matthew George Wickham

In the quietness of his flat just off Portobello Road, Matthew sat and stared at his phone. He needed to be wanted, and Cara wanted him with her whole heart, not just the part of it she deigned to share. He loved her in the way that he thought she wanted to be loved, and they had been fairly happy for the first few years before it slipped into something that felt like boredom. She had told him that she had forgiven him for Harriet, but he knew that his daughter would always be living, breathing prove of his transgression and he didn’t know how much of his life he could devote to apologising. The wedding had been her father’s idea; Lord Dalhousie was a different breed of aristocrat to the ones he was used to, and he had been swept along with the idea of it. But now… Lizzy was always so closed off, always too reserved in her affections. He couldn’t spend his life half waiting and half guessing when she would next decide she wanted him, that was if she even wanted him at all. He pressed send.

M: Lizzy, am I what you want?

It was fifteen long, lingering minutes before his phone buzzed. Her name illuminated in pixels on the screen. His stomach turned as if he had dropped from a dramatic height.  The word hit him like a gunshot in the dark.

L: No.

Lizzy sat in the living room, looking out at the moon reflecting on the water of the lake. It has been a lie, because she had wanted him; but she wasn’t prepared to hold him back, to keep him shackled to Derbyshire. The choice to have Harriet had been hers, she hadn’t given him a choice, would never know what his answer could have been, but their paths had already diverged, and he was halfway along a journey that she would never be able to catch up on. No, this was for the best, she thought.

The lake stopped looking comforting and familiar now, instead it looked bottomless and unending, as if falling into it would result in tumbling through a vast expanse of blackness. 


	23. 2006

Hugh Darcy had never really appreciated Pemberley when he lived here, it was always unbearably cold, especially in winter and his memories of coming home from school for the holidays were of being freezing and coughing from the smoky fires, which were never cleaned often enough. His room, called the Mahogany Room due to being panelled from floor to ceiling in the deep dark wood, had two windows which faced the lake, and both rattled when the wind rushed over the moorland.

During one particularly harsh winter, the roads out of the estate were unnavigable, and even though the ice on the lake was thick, the Darcy boys were banned from donning skates for their amusement – their Aunt Sybil sharing the story of Peter Darcy, her grandfather’s brother, who fell through the ice at the age of eight and was lost for eternity. Ever enterprising, Jeremy and Hugh opened every single window on the Long Gallery, pushing up the creaking wood as blasts of cold air whooshed into the room, then they tipped buckets of water all over the floor and waited for it to freeze. It didn’t, of course, but the two brothers felt the icy wrath of Mrs Reynolds, who demanded that they clean up before their father discovered what had happened. Hugh had secretly been hoping that Winston would find out and send them back to the warmth of school as punishment, but he didn’t, and they spent an afternoon soaking up freezing cold water with rags before being sent to bed without supper, although Staughton did send up hot buttered toast and tea after Mrs Reynolds had retired for the evening.

Summer had always been wonderful at Pemberley; especially when their mother decamped to London to star in a show in the West End, or off to Pinewood to film the terrible comedies that she still regularly appeared in. Sylvia Pratchett had only been twenty-two when she married the dashing Duke of Derbyshire, a man who was twice her age, and even though he was still handsome they found that they had little in common. The new Duchess longed for parties and society, whereas Winston preferred country living, or rather his mother preferred him living in the country so that was where they remained. They divorced quickly the spring before Hugh was sent to Eton; the Darcy children mainly saw their mother at the cinema, her ghostly image flickering to life on the screen as she giggled and romanced her way through an illustrious career. When they saw her in the flesh, she never quite seemed as real.

The baton of motherhood passed to Aunt Sybil; who had returned from Boise when she discovered, after fifteen years of marriage, that her handsome GI husband was actually someone else’s handsome GI husband too. Without any children of her own, the pouting, acerbic woman with the American accent and pointed fingernails, took the Darcy children under her wing and introduced them to Pemberley the best way she knew how – well-organised, well-planned adventures. There was boating on the lake, a mini-Olympics on the lawn, orienteering in the woods, climbing at the Lantern – a broken arm for Hugh, a broken ankle for Jeremy, tears and tantrums from Julia – and baking cakes and pies in the kitchens, much to the annoyance of Mrs Reynolds, who complained bitterly to Lady Millicent.

Joyce was walking up towards the Orangery when she spotted the Duke walking towards her. He must be here to see the girls, she thought, as she mentally worked out where she could walk to avoid him. But it was no use, she was halfway past the portico and couldn’t turn back on herself, it would be too obvious. No, she would have to walk past him and be courteous. Pretend that she didn’t recognise him. She smoothed down her jacket as she walked, hoped that she looked presentable. She surreptitiously looked up under her fringe, casually glancing at him.

He looked the same as she remembered; his dark curls may be sprinkled with silver, his eyes a little crinkly, but he was the same man who she had fallen in love with over the course of a summer; she had been working every hour as a house guide to help pay bills and he had been languishing about with nothing to do. He had joined her tour more than once, asking tricky questions that he knew she couldn’t answer, purposely trying to annoy her; he apologised afterwards and pulled her up onto his horse, riding hard to the top of Cage Hill with her clinging onto his waist for dear life; there was swimming in the pond on the hottest day of the year and she had screamed at him when he had thrown a frog at her. He had wrapped his arms around her that day and they had retreated to the cottage on the edge of the woods where they lay together on the flat coolness of the stone floor and she knew she would never be the same again.

On their last night before he returned to Cambridge, they had taken the Duke’s expensive telescope onto the roof to look at the stars, it had accidentally fallen down the stairs with an ominous thud as they shared kisses and sweet nothings. Joyce was fully aware that it could only be fleeting, could never be more than what it was, and she cherished her memories of that glorious Pemberley summer. Now here he was again, standing in front of her, saying hello.

Joyce found herself inadvertently doing a little bob, “Your Grace”, before moving to walk past him.

“Joyce” he said hesitantly. He would have recognised her anywhere; remembering her face in vague memories that were tinted with the heat of the sun, the sound of laughter and the smell of strawberry shampoo.

“Sir,” she tucked her hair behind her ear, smiled brightly. “Nice to see again…after all these years.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “You haven’t changed at all, you’re the same as I remember.”

“Thank you,” she smiled.

“This is a surprise, I turn up here for Harriet’s first day at school and here you are. I knew you worked here, of course, but I have never seen you about when I’ve visited.” They began to walk together, inadvertently walking in step with each other down towards the west front of the house overlooking the Dutch garden. 

“I’ve been here for five years now,” she turned the bleeping radio down. After the near-miss at the Christening, Joyce had scheduled her own rota to purposely avoid times when Hugh would be here. It was awkward, especially when the Duchess was here too, lording it over everyone as if she thought she truly was the lady of the manor, rather than a hotel receptionist who had caught Hugh’s eye on lonely work trip to Doncaster, which is what she was. Joyce wasn’t a snob when it came to rank and titles, but there was a difference between class and breeding and Carol Darcy, Duchess of Derbyshire, had neither.

“Five years, crikey! Does that qualify you for a special award or something?”

“No, unfortunately not, but I do get to work here every day and it’s still my favourite place in the world.”

“It always was, wasn’t it?” he twisted on his signet ring, suddenly feeling slightly nervous as he fiddled with the cuffs on his shirt. “I never understood, not until recently, why you always loved this place so much.”

“Pemberley is magic,” she grinned. “It casts a spell on you, I think.”

“Maybe I keep thinking about the bouts of influenza that Pemberley cast on me during the many, many cold winters!”

They reached the edge of the gardens and stood for a moment in silence before the radio made a racket that she couldn’t ignore.

“I have to go, but it’s been lovely seeing you again.”

“Yes, it has been lovely.” He held her gaze a little longer than either of them felt comfortable with before Joyce walked away firmly in the direction of the house. Hugh watched for longer than was necessary before walking purposefully in the opposite direction and back upstairs where Lizzy and Harriet were waiting for him.

 

“Grandad Duke, where have you been?” Harriet scolded playfully, taking a seat on his lap. She was wearing the navy-blue cardigan of St David’s Primary and shiny, patent shoes with a velvet bow. Hugh bounced her on his knee for a moment as she giggled and laughed before Lizzy came in with a cafetière and two mugs on a tray. She poured the coffee before Harriet jumped down and greedily grabbed at the small jug of milk, wanting to finish it off as a treat.

“Yeah Dad, where have you been?” Lizzy raised her eyebrow at him before taking a seat on the sofa and drinking her coffee thirstily.

“For a walk around the grounds, can a man not spend time walking about his ancestral home nowadays?” He turned the TV up as the local news blared away and they drank their coffee silently, punctured by the occasional yell from Harriet as she attempted to plait the hair on her Bratz doll.

“Mr Wickham is meeting us there then, is he?” Hugh asked with a certain level of cynicism that he reserved for his granddaughter’s father.

“Daddy! Daddy Daddy Daddy!!!” Harriet jumped up and started dancing about the room, probably still remembering the trip to Disneyland and heaps of presents that she received the last time her father visited. Lizzy visibly growled, remember the sobs and tears that followed his visits as their daughter struggled with the confusion of getting to know her dad, with the confusion of being unable to understand why he lived so far away and couldn’t see her every day.

“Will Mrs Wickham be joining us today?” Hugh raised an eyebrow at Lizzy, who pulled a face.

“Not today,” she said, pulling Harriet’s hair into little pigtails. “The baby is due in the next few weeks. You’re getting a little brother, aren’t you Harry?”

“Baby brother!” Harriet squealed.

Hugh picked her up and gave her a kiss on the cheek, “you’ll be a brilliant big sister, my darling girl.”

“I know, Grandpop, I’m always the best!”

 

The playground of St David’s Primary was the same as she remembered; the same gravelly finish underfoot, and the same oak tree languishing regally in the corner, its branches waving tall and proud above the classrooms. Harriet was beaming with excitement and eagerly ran over to the little friends she knew from pre-school – a short, stout girl with big blue eyes and massive blonde curls called Summer, who reminded her of Imogen; and a taller girl with two ginger plaits and a serious face called Caitlyn. They started to dance about on the grass, running and whooping with laughter, before stopping suddenly, grouping together and comparing their identical shoes, before setting off again with giggles and screams. Moira, Summer’s mum came bounding over introducing herself; fawning over Hugh and calling him ‘Your Highness’ at every possible opportunity, which he found highly amusing. She eventually bounced back to the other mums in the corner of the playground, but not before she had pressed her business cards into his hands.

Standing in the same place they had played as children, was Matthew; married now, he looked tired, his hair artistically long, his beard gone, the chip in his tooth fixed with pearly white veneers. Standing next to him, creeping and congratulating was the headmistress, Mrs Sanderson, who had always been mean and angry, but who was now brightened by being so close to retirement age. He glanced over and caught her eye; Lizzy looked away too quickly for it to be unnoticeable.

The first time had been the trip to Disneyland; where they had shared a bottle of Merlot and a bed. The second time he had turned up at the flat after a long days filming in Manchester under the pretence of seeing Harriet, and they had quiet, giggly sex on the sofa as she slept in the room upstairs. The third, fourth and fifth times were tinged with guilt, and Lizzy had stopped it, said it wasn’t fair, even though they both knew that Cara Wickham was currently sleeping with her personal trainer. Matthew wasn’t even sure if the baby was his, could barely remember when the last they had been intimate had been, but he owed it to his wife. He knew he did.

“We need to stop doing this,” he grinned, as he pulled at her top and she fiddled with the buttons before pulling the shirt over his head.

“Yes,” she breathed heavily, she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, the soft pressure of his lips on hers, his arms around her neck, she pulled him into her, the weight of him pushing her back against the wall.

“But we can’t,” he sighed into her neck as he ran his hands over her hips, lifting her skirt his hands on her thighs ensuring that the tingle ran through her like an electric current.

“It will always be you and me, Lizzy.”

She inhaled quickly, the breath catching on her lips as his mouth moved down her body. She ran her fingers through his hair, it was longer now, more like it had been when she had first realised that kissing could feel this good, how the push and the pull made you sparkle all over. Even now, she could still feel that familiar burn for him deep within her and they moved together in an unrehearsed performance.


	24. Elizabeth 1816

Dressing herself in a simple gown, jacket and her sturdiest boots, Elizabeth Darcy had risen before the crow and ventured outside. She was surprised to see that the world around her was still the same when she was so different; all her emotions somehow deadened by the loss she had experienced and the grief that still overcame her when she was least expecting it. She had pretended to be asleep when her husband, he himself still grieving, had come to her rooms the night before and sat gently on her bed, pouring out his heart and soul to her, not aware that she was listening to every word he said.

He felt the pain too, he said. He did not ever think that they would lose a child, but that they had been given a great gift and had another baby to look after and cherish, and this baby and their sons needed their mother, and he needed his wife. She had wanted to speak up and tell him that he could not experience the loss in the same way she had, had not carried the babe in his belly for nine months and felt him move and grow, and now there was nothing; no life and no future for the dead child, the lost son, the missing Darcy.

Elizabeth planned to walk to The Cage, which she managed in reasonable time, taking a moment to look back at her home which was still as beautiful today as the first time she ever saw it. She walked further, onwards and onwards, through the deer park and into the moorland beyond. The early summer months had hardened the ground and she found it strong and easy to stride across. With new purpose, she pushed on until she could no longer see the outline of the three-hundred-year-old hunting lodge dominating the skyline. She kept the momentum of one foot in front of the other, onwards and onwards, over stiles and past cottages on the furthest expanses of the estate, whose tenants she visited in the winter, bringing them gifts from the house. It was mid-afternoon before she decided to stop; her feet aching and her mouth dry. She was unsure of how many miles she had walked, and she was aware of the impropriety of it all. But Elizabeth knew where she was going, and she trudged ahead, onwards and onwards.

 

Gallagher didn’t expect to see Mrs Darcy of Pemberley, sunburned and dehydrated, walking down the driveway towards Dunham, he had thought the bedraggled and scruffy looking woman was perhaps a wandering gypsy looking for work. It was only when he spotted the expensive looking necklace under her spencer, the heavy fine embroidery to her mud-soaked hem that he realised he was mistaken. He jumped from his horse and pulled her under his arm, lifting her onto the chestnut mare and walking quickly up to the house.

Mrs Bingley, who had been out in the garden came running through the corridor, her bonnet coming lose and falling to the ground as she reached her sister and gathered her up, before calling for small ale and ice. Elizabeth collapsed into Jane’s arms and was held there on the floor of the house for a long time, crying and sobbing until there was nothing left inside her. Gallagher carried the lady upstairs to the Blue Bedroom, there was no weight to her, and he thought she looked pale and hollow, she looked up at him with scared brown eyes and pulled herself closer to him as he climbed the flight of stairs. He placed her on the soft coverlet and she reached for his hand as he turned to leave.

“Thank you for the kindness you have shown me today, Mr Gallagher.”

 Jane gently stroked her sister’s forehead until she fell asleep, Elizabeth slept until the following evening and Bingley had rode over to Pemberley himself to let Darcy know that his wife was safe and well.

“Jane,” Elizabeth said weakly. “I am so happy to see your face.”

Mrs Bingley placed some ice to her sister’s lips, which were dry and chapped from the summer sun.

“Sister, how I have missed you,” she smiled softly. “We have all been so worried.”

“Oh Jane, it has been so hard, and I have been so lonely.”

“Lonely, why? Surely you can speak with Fitzwilliam…”

“There are some things men do not understand, Jane, and I fear this is one of them.”

“What do you mean?” She searched her face for an answer but found nothing but pain there. “Lizzy…”

“Everyone keeps saying that I should feel happy that we are so fortunate that I survived, and she lived….” She held back a sob. “All I can think about is how he did not live and how unfortunate that is.”

Jane pulled her sister close to her and embraced her gently.

“It was very unfortunate, and I know that Darcy feels the loss keenly, but he is grateful that you and your daughter did not suffer the same fate, for it is very common to lose everyone. You cannot judge your husband, Lizzy, for taking comfort in the fact that you survived and that your daughter lived.”

Elizabeth knew that Jane always spoke the absolute truth, there was nothing bad about her and no reason to lie or contrive a situation. It was only through speaking to her dearest sister that she began to feel the tremendous burden of surviving begin to leave her. She took long strolls in the grounds at Dunham, walking to the edge of the park, where she could be alone with her thoughts and her grief.  Looking up at the blue sky overhead, she came to understand that Samuel would always be a part of her that she carried around inside her heart and that the loss of him could not prevent her from living. She was at the furthest point from the house, away from the screams and giggles of the Bingley children and the concerned faces of her sister and her husband, when she closed her eyes and presented her face to the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“Lizzy.”

It sounded different to the voice she knew so well, to the voice that had proclaimed love, made vows, ran the world she lived in with a firm, authoritative hand. It was a small, unsure voice in the silence and it echoed in her heart.

Elizabeth opened her eyes to see her husband standing before her, she stood in front of him hesitantly, as if she had betrayed him in the worst possible way. Tentatively he moved towards her and she fell into his arms, he held her tight, his arms around her waist, his forehead pressed against hers and they looked at each other deeply as if seeing each other for the first time, not needing to say what was already understood.

Elizabeth returned to Pemberley two weeks later, when her heart cried out to be home and see the faces of her children again. As she alighted from the coach and stepped out onto the cobbled courtyard, she heard the squeals and shouts coming from the far side of the house as the boys ran down the stairs.

 “Mama!! Mama!!!”

They embraced her with such force that she was sure she was going to fall over. She knelt, kissing and embracing them before rising to her feet to see Darcy holding a bundle of wool and lace. Walking over slowly as if being introduced to a stranger, she peeked at the little face hidden in the embroidered shawl and found herself looking into eyes that were exactly like her own.

“Lizzy,” Darcy murmured softly. “This is Mabel.”

She smiled, “from the Latin…?”

“Yes, I thought you would approve,” he said, now hesitating a little over his choice. “Amabilis…. Lovable.”

“I do,” her brow crinkled, and her eyes looked watery, “I approve completely,” she whispered, “It’s an honour to meet you, Miss Darcy.”  She took the little hand in her own, the chubby miniature fingers exactly like her own, and the baby immediately grasped back, “Oh! You are strong, Mabel! What larks we will have together.”

Darcy gently placed his arm on his wife’s shoulder and kissed her on the top of head, he was so grateful to have her home where she belonged, taking her hand, he led her out onto the front lawn, the boys already running ahead, screaming and laughing and throwing themselves on the grass as the rest of the family followed behind them.


	25. Lizzy

Deb clambered into Lizzy’s rusting, yellow Fiat – there were papers and sandwich boxes tucked into the doors, CD cases littered the floor and the back seat was covered in a collection of coats, jackets and shoes, with a regency bonnet tucked onto the parcel shelf for good measure. Pervading the whole car was the vague smell of off vegetables where, on a client trip to Birmingham, Lizzy had managed to spill a whole cup-a-soup onto the passenger footwell, attempting to mask it with a jolly Rocket Lolly air freshener that dangled from the rear-view mirror. She held tight to her handbag, not wanting to place it on the floor of the car – she didn’t know what might get stuck on it.

 “Do you not earn enough money to buy a new car?” She joked, with a semi-serious tone.

Deb did the payroll and knew exactly how much Lizzy earned and she knew full well that she could afford something not as grim as this twenty-odd year-old Fiat Punto.

Lizzy rolled her eyes as they pulled out of the car parking space that had her name on.

“I like _this_ car.”

The journey was short, and they decamped to the store quickly, avoiding a quick shower of unseasonal rain for which neither of them was suitably dressed, stepping over puddles in the uneven tarmacked floor.

 “So, what is he like,” Deb said, whizzing paper bags full of granola squares and choc chip shortbread into the basket. “Is he like Iain on ‘Still into You’?”

“The one where he played the narcissistic sociopath? Yeah, he’s exactly like that,” she snorted.

Deb threw her friend a well-timed side eye, “well, all I’m saying is that since you went out for tea with him a week ago, he has been at your flat every night and you have barely said two words about him,” she threw pitta chips and humous into the basket.

They surveyed the sandwiches on offer, reaching past elderly ladies with blue rinses to reach their favourites. “We seem to have just clicked… and I’d rather have him over at the flat with company than rattling around the Alveston by himself.”

Although she had never expected to spend her evenings with Benn Williams, now that she thought about it she realised how much she had enjoyed his company. He had made her laugh in a way that she hadn’t expected he would do, sharing a similar sense of humour and an ability to laugh at himself now that she had scratched away at his snooty veneer. She had even forgiven him for calling her fat when he explained that wasn’t what he had meant at all and he always found that he was much better saying words other people had written, rather than using his own – he had been doing it for so long now that he thought he was now completely ineloquent.

He had been at the flat three out of the last four nights and they had talked about books and travel, getting to know each other slowly through their mutual love of Monty Python (“nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”) and their shared stomping grounds in the northern quarter of Manchester, where he had worked in a record shop she had frequented at one time. She had made him watch Wuthering Heights, which he had cringed at, before providing a live commentary as they ate a bowl of crushed biscuit and mascarpone that should have been a cheesecake and she criticised his romantic prowess as the Bronte hero. Lizzy took the time to school him on the finer points of Heathcliff, things she felt he had missed from his interpretation, and then listened as Benn decried her reviews by stating that all women loved Heathcliff because of his brooding sexuality and the fact that he was a grade-A arse, which was what all women wanted really if they thought about it. She had smeared mascarpone on his face as revenge and he chased her around the couch as if to prove his suitability for the role, before tickling her as he declared he was a feminist and she roared with laughter.

“Well,” Deb sighed, taking a sample of cheese bread from the counter, “as long as you are having fun. I like seeing you happy, you’ve been too sad for too long and you deserve a bit of fun… although,” she took another piece of bread for the few short steps to the wine aisle, “I’m waiting for the day when you meet that man who looks at you at though you are the best thing since they started making cheesy garlic bread. You deserve to be swept off your feet. You deserve that fairy-tale, my love, we all do.”

“You are reading far too much into this.”

“I don’t think I am,” Debs said. “I’ve known you for ages now and I’ve never seen you smile like this.”

Lizzy looked at her friend with a look of good-humoured astonishment, “have you been drinking during the day again?”

“I bloody well wish!”

Debs was the mum of two girls, both in primary school and as opinionated as their mother; they had moved from the small town outside Newcastle when the youngest was three – escaping an abusive marriage and looking for a new life somewhere green. Debs had chosen Lambton because she fell in love with Pemberley after watching Colin Firth walking across the lawn in his wet white shirt; it had been on television one night at the hostel she had run to with her children after her husband’s behaviour had spiralled and she knew she needed to escape. Derbyshire looked like a nice place on the small flicker of the 20” screen in the shared sitting room, and she began to look for a house, for a job and for a new future.

It had been hard, uprooting herself and her girls miles from their support network; but she had found the job online, interviewing with relative ease and plopping herself down smoothly into a brand new part of the world. It helped that Lizzy was a single mum too; and they often discussed the perils of children and dating over a bottle of wine and frozen pizza in the flat at the top of the tower. Deb was always amused how Lizzy called the flat ‘little’, when it covered over three floors and was bigger than Debs’ house and the one next door put together.

Lizzy didn’t think twice about throwing a twenty quid bottle of Sauvignon Blanc into the trolley or dropping fifty quid on a new set of towels that she simply must have, and Deb found that she was a little jealous of her lack of budget. It made working out the expenses claims a nightmare, and she was constantly pestering Lizzy to keep all her receipts in the little tin she had bought her off eBay. Lizzy might not have been bothered about claiming for petrol and hotel stays, but Harris was – wanting everything above board and accounted for – and Deb found herself spending the last few days of the month writing out receipts and checking Lizzy’s card statements to make everything balance.

“Are you sure you don’t fancy him?” Deb eyed her friend with suspicion, she knew that there was more to this that Lizzy was giving away and she was determined to get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later. “I mean I wouldn’t blame you, if I had Benn Williams on the couch I wouldn’t wanna be watching the telly, if you know what I mean…”

Lizzy rolled her eyes at her and laughed, “Deb, I think Marjorie on the deli counter knows what you mean!” She scanned her cheese sandwich through the self-service till, “I don’t think you would even get him to the couch…” Lizzy chastised, before taking out a lemon drizzle cake from the basket and beeping it. “I don’t see him like that, not really – he’s just a friend.” She took a large carrot cake from the shelf at the side of the till and considered if for a moment before placing it back.

“You positive it’s nothing more?” Deb took the carrot cake back off the shelf and scanned it through.

Lizzy thought carefully for a moment; Benn Williams was definitely handsome enough to tempt her, made her laugh, managed to make tea just the way she liked it, but… there was always a but, and it was always shaped like Matthew Wickham.   

“No, definitely not,” she stated firmly. “It’s nice being friends with him – and we are actual friends – there is a little bit of flirting, but it’s nice and it’s safe. It doesn’t actually mean anything.”

“Well,” Deb harrumphed. “I’m just sayin’, where Benn Williams is concerned… regardless of how many ex-wives he might still be in love with…I would be the bounce of his rebound!”

She laughed loudly causing the woman on the till next to them to look over disapprovingly. The rest of their lunchbreak was filled with a conversation about Debs’ new boyfriend, Pete, who was blessed with both a large member and a voracious appetite. It was a match made in heaven, Lizzy thought.


	26. Millicent - 1915

Born in the dying embers of the industrial fire of the nineteenth century, Lady Millicent Augusta was the youngest child of Edward and Cecily Darcy – he was the second son, who survived the accident on the lake that killed his brother, whilst she was the glamourous and rich American; the heiress of a railroad magnate, who had been sent over to England to marry a Duke with an impressive lineage, which she did. Having already provided themselves with an heir, George, and then a spare, Albert, two years later, the Darcys had not expected to become the parents of a girl. She was placed in the care of a succession of nannies and then squirrelled away in the schoolroom with her governess, Miss Evesham, who schooled her in music, literature and other activities thought befitting of a young lady.

As she got older, Millicent moved along the nursery corridor to the small bedroom at the end of the long gallery, with the crooked fireplace and uneven floorboards that creaked whenever she stepped too heavily. She badly stitched drapes for the centuries old bed with the dark wood and ominous figures carved into it; she was aware that it had been made for a visit by Anne Boleyn, but the only Queen who had ever slept in it was Mary of Scots whilst she was a prisoner of the crown. It made her sad to think of Mary lying in the bed, looking up at the morbid carvings, knowing that the people who were meant to be her hosts were secretly looking for ways to implicate her in treason. Yet more women, she thought, whose positions were defined by the men they married; even Queen Elizabeth depended on her male advisors and, despite ruling for sixty-four years, Millicent was convinced that the recently-deceased Victoria would only be remembered for her extreme grief and excessive waistline.

At eighteen, she came out in society and was presented to the King who, even though he preferred a more curvaceous lady, viewed the willowy girl with a lustful gaze. With her mother’s exotic looks and her father’s fortune, Lady Millicent Augusta Darcy soon became one of the most eligible debutantes in London and was courted by several young gentlemen, none of whom caught her eye or her heart, because she had already decided that she would never marry, would never sacrifice her name and her identity to become the possession of another, not even someone whom she truly loved.

Edward Darcy, the mild-mannered Duke of Derbyshire, was reading his newspaper in the gentlemen’s club on St James’s Street when he heard that his daughter had been arrested for setting fire to a postbox in the name of Women’s Suffrage. This was the second time that he had been summoned to the police station to bail her out and it was becoming tiresome. Despite this he was, despite his wife’s disgust, secretly proud of Millicent’s newfound infamy as one of the younger leaders of the suffragette movement in the north, along with the Pankhurst’s, whom he funded with anonymous donations. He wasn’t surprised, however, to find that instead of bailing out his daughter, he was faced with a working-class girl with red hair and a smattering of freckles who smiled up at him as she was released. Millicent would often switch identities with the poorer girls, knowing that her rank as a member of the aristocracy granted her a leniency not usually granted to women of a lower status.

It would be three months before she was released, celebrated by the group of sisters outside the gates of Holloway, who cheered and celebrated; furious and weak, but battle-hardened by the hunger strikes and force-feedings, she went straight to the WSPU headquarters in Kingsway, where she planned to attend the Derby. The plan was to pin rosettes to the Kings horse as it hammered past them; but the crowd was too busy, the horses too fast, and Millicent and the rest of the women dotted about the crowd watched as their friend was trampled to death, powerless to save her. Arrested once more, she was bailed and returned to her father like lost luggage. He promptly sent her back to Pemberley for recuperation and fresh air, despite her objections.

“We are fighting for revolution!” the younger woman screamed at her Mother across the dining table, “why can you not understand that this is for all women, it’s for you too!”

Cecily deep-sighed and continued with her onion soup; she looked over at her husband and rolled her eyes. Edward, failing to notice the cue, took a mouthful of the meal before being verbally accosted by his daughter.

“And you, Father, do you not think that it is ridiculous that women do not have any right or any say over what they do? A woman is her father’s possession until she marries and then she is the property of her husband. What if she never marries…who does she belong to then? Does she finally belong to herself or does she get entailed away?”

“Erm,” he stammered. “I’m not sure, Milly -”

“Well you should know!” She threw her spoon into the decorated china, it clinked loudly, soup splashing over the tablecloth. “This is intolerable. You are keeping me a prisoner here.”

Edward shot a knowing glance at his wife, who deep-sighed and took a large mouthful of wine. She didn’t know what she had done in a previous life to deserve such a boisterous and argumentative child and wished, most fervently, that Millicent would start to behave like the Lady she was, rather than running up and down the country causing havoc with this group of trouble-making women. Cecily hoped that it would all stop soon, the thought of it all gave her a headache. 

*

Rupert Fitzwilliam always thought that Millicent Darcy was the most spiffing girl that he had ever had the good luck to know. From childhood they had played together in the grounds at Pemberley, hiding in the ravine with the gardeners as Cecily demanded fresh flowers for her parties, or sneaking onto the top landing and looking down on the fancy ladies and handsome gentlemen getting drunk in the saloon. It was a blissful golden era and every time Rupert returned to the big old house in Derbyshire, he fell a little bit more in love with his second cousin, who didn’t care about fighting him on the lawn or falling about in the lake, splashing him in the sweltering heat of the summer sun, despite her mother’s yells that it was decidedly unladylike. She taught him how to fire a shotgun, already knowing better than the boy who permanently lived in London where to aim and what to shoot.

When she was twenty-one and he was newly graduated from Oxford, they attended one of the Duchess’s house parties as invited guests and ended up bored by the tiresome conversation and restrained dancing, although they did enjoy the copious amounts of alcohol. Falling about laughing sitting on the top step of the staircase, they continued drinking their stealthily procured champagne from the stirrup glasses that Rupert had given her for her birthday. The house was alive with music and laughter, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes filling the house with an aroma that Millicent found comforting. She leaned over and put her arm around his shoulder, teasing the combed and waxed hair at the nape of his neck into an unruly twirl. He was so close now that she could smell the hint of his cologne, it smelled like leather and cognac mixed with his own earthy scent. She had never noticed before how blue his eyes were, or how his moustache curled at the ends, she caught him looking at her in the same way, as if he had never seen her before – people always look so different when you are inches away from them, your body tingling with anticipation and each breath taking a lifetime.

Rupert tentatively leaned towards her and she moved back, primarily out of fear; sensing this he traced his fingertips over the back of her hand, causing goosebumps to race up her arm. Slowly and with a great trepidation, he ran the flat of his palm up her arm and to her shoulder, into the crease of her purple taffeta gown, his fingers catching on the beaded embroidery, she watched still and silent, unsure what he would do next. His fingers continued their slow journey up to her face and as he placed his hand on the back of her neck and brought her mouth slowly to his own Millicent thought that she might explode with the myriad of sensations enveloping her. She knew at that moment that she had always been in love with Rupert Fitzwilliam; emboldened by a brazen disregard for society’s rules and social etiquette, she took his hand and they walked the short journey to her room, where he proclaimed he loved her under her badly embroidered sheets.

*

The younger male servants were the first to leave, parading to Lambton in their smart khaki uniforms, after photographs were taken on the courtyard steps of the Pemberley Pals; twenty three footmen, under-butlers, gardeners, stable hands and the middle Darcy child, Albert, had signed up to fight the Hun. Only two of them would return.

Later, as the war continued longer than the world anticipated, more of the estate workers were conscripted, including George who although scared about what lay before him was determined to do his duty for King and Country. Even titled Officers could be casualties of war, and the eldest Darcy boy – the Earl of Berkshire and Struthers - would lose his life in the Battle of the Amiens alongside his cousin, Rupert, who fought bravely to save a fallen comrade before taking a bullet to the head. He had died instantly.

The buff-coloured telegram that arrived in the car of an important war official caused Cecily Darcy to scream and fall into a hysterical fit in the entrance hall of the great house. The gentleman called for help, but nothing that anyone could say or do prevented the manic sobs that fell from the Duchess of Derbyshire’s face. Edward retreated to his study, to drink through his grief, leaving his daughter to comfort her mother, something that proved impossible to do. Cecily Darcy went to her rooms and did not come out of them for three months; when she did she was a husk of a woman, living in her heartache until she gave up on life a month before the end of the war.

Albert Darcy returned at the start of 1919, but he wasn’t the same as before. The sights and sounds he had seen had permanently scarred him and even music and laughter caused his heart to race and his body to shake with fear. He disappeared into the woods one freezing cold night; searches were fruitless until Albert was found dead three days later by Arthur Wickham, the private who had served with him on the front, the last surviving Pemberley Pal.

Millicent Darcy had never expected to be the unofficial heir to Pemberley and she had certainly never wanted it under such horrific circumstances. Most of the house was now closed and shuttered, with cloths covering the fine furniture and as she viewed her family home from her sanctuary in the folly at Lantern Wood, she thought that Pemberley looked as if it was falling asleep, drifting away into history; with few staff and her father drinking himself half to death, Millicent knew that it fell on her to try and fix things as best she could.

As the world moved into the twenties, she sold the house on Grosvenor Square to an American hotel magnate who remembered her mother with fondness, negotiating a deal that allowed the family to maintain a residence in the hotel in perpetuity once it was completed. Furniture from the house was auctioned off, with people from across the world eager to own a piece of Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, even if the pieces they bought were refurbished, reupholstered fragments of what was once there. Despite not caring for the tale, she retained a portrait of Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy in a yellow dress painted a few months after her wedding, it held a special place in her heart and she hung it in her bedroom at Pemberley where it provided a comforting presence.

Edward never knew how his daughter had managed to keep her son a secret for so long, but he was pleased to meet the young boy who stood before him. Winston was five years old and had the light colouring of his mother and the furrowed brow of the Darcy men; he was clever too – reading aloud from Moby Dick and playing a recognisable tune on the piano. He never asked Millicent who Winston’s father was, but he had his suspicions and was sad for her loss – that she had not received the recognition of her grief, or the badge of sympathy worn by widows of the war. He made plans to contact his attorney in Lambton, Edward was going to legitimise his grandson and provide Pemberley with an heir. Women might have won the vote, but they still couldn’t inherit a dukedom and he was determined to do all he could to ensure his blonde haired, blue eyed grandson would be the next Duke of Derbyshire.


	27. Lizzy

It was after six when the last of the staff left, their soft chatter and gentle footsteps echoing through the Bright Gallery and down the north stairs as they clocked off for the day, eager to get home and enjoy the last bursts of glorious sunshine. The gallery ran around the house on three sides and had been the perfect place to learn how to roller skate, despite the unevenness of the floorboards; people forgot when they walked around the house using hushed tones of reverence that Pemberley had always been a family home and countless generations of children had run around screaming, shouting and generally causing chaos in the hallowed halls. Lizzy loved it on busy Summer holiday weekends when dozens of small visitors descended upon the grounds, dressed up in regency costumes borrowed from the dressing room and ran around the gardens laughing and shrieking as they did. Sometimes the gardeners would grab the old croquet set out of the storage cupboard and set up the hoops on the lawn, parents shouting at one or other of their offspring to stop chasing another around the garden with a mallet.

Lizzy stepped outside of the large oak door that was marked ‘private’ and led the way to the Wyatt tower and up to her flat, usually she didn’t use this door, instead climbing her way up the three flights of steps in the north corner of the courtyard, and through corridors and passages that visitors didn’t see, places that had allowed the servants of Pemberley to historically move about the house unnoticed and unseen. She sat on the top step, waiting for Harriet, who was still getting ready for Prom, it felt strange to have a child who had left school – she could remember vividly living these days herself and the time had passed by so quickly that it was scary. Her own Prom had been overshadowed somewhat by her Dad’s wedding to Carol, which had taken place the day after in the small chapel at Pemberley and been photographed for Hello magazine. She had been forced to wear a hideous yellow dress and she compensated for it by getting ridiculously drunk off the Veuve Clicquot that was being freely handed out, spending the evening throwing up and then being taken to bed early by Maggie, whose boyfriend stood in the corner deep-sighing and wanting to get back to the party.

Lizzy felt the thick, woollen carpet underneath her fingers, it was another thing that had never changed, although it was a lot cleaner now that when she had been younger; the Historical House Society had done a thorough deep-clean of the house when their tenure had begun and, although it had been strange to experience – like someone cleaning out your house after you died, but before you had died – she now appreciated the refurbishments that they had made, the investment they had pumped into the house and the general feeling of love that all members of staff had for her family home.

Lizzy got to her feet and took a firm grip of the handles of the small jute bag decorated with bees and containing the bottle of fizz and the two crystal champagne stirrup glasses that had belonged to Millicent Darcy. The great thing about a stirrup glass, she had always thought, was that to the untrained eye it looked like a bell but was so designed so you had to drink your full toast before you could put the glass down.

“Mum,” Harriet gave her a gentle hug, “are you ready?”

Lizzy looked up and smiled at her daughter; Harriet was dressed in a sparkly fitted turquoise dress that she had bought in Los Angeles at Easter and super high red-bottomed Louboutins that her dad reluctantly purchased from Manchester the day before after lots of gentle persuasion. They were the same height now and Lizzy was convinced that her daughter was sure to grow another few inches and surpass her within the next few years. She had the Darcy chin, but rather than jutting out, it was softer giving her a nice shape to her face. Her eyes were dark too, but the grey was softened by a hint of blue that made them look like gems. Harriet was very much like her mother, but there was something about her that was inherently Matthew and she sometimes saw it streaked across her in bright, bold colours.

“Yes,” she smiled proudly. “Shall we retire to the Saloon, Honourable Harriet?”

“Why yes, Lady Elizabeth, that would be most agreeable to myself,” she tumbled over the words in a fake posh accent.

Harriet grabbed her mum’s hand with as much grace as she could muster, and the two Darcy ladies promenaded down the grand sweep of the oak staircase, taking their time to do the customary salute to General George Darcy, whose portrait dominated the hallway and who was the gentleman responsible for rebuilding Pemberley after the English Civil War.

“Do you think he would approve of people tromping round his house,” Harriet asked as they paused at the base of the painting, the ornate gilt frame catching the tiny shards of sunlight that were glinting through the protective blinds.

“The other alternative would have been Pemberley being converted into flats or a hotel, I think that would have been worse, don’t you?”

There had been talk of it sometime in the forties when the family coalfields in Lancashire were requisitioned by the government and the once bountiful family income had reduced considerably. Winston and his mother had worked tirelessly to generate revenue and they had managed to keep the house as a family home for as long as possible.  The Darcys were never averse to selling assets to keep hold of Pemberley; Derbyshire House, their home in Grosvenor Square, had been sold and was now a collection of luxury apartments, including the art-deco penthouse which they retained as their primary London residence.

Harriet retorted, “they would never do that to Pemberley, you could easily find some Austen-obsessed foreign trillionaire who would buy it and turn it into-”

“-turn it into a theme park or transport it brick by brick to Dubai?”

Lizzy looked at Harriet with a quizzical look as they walked through the main doors to the Saloon. The room had been designed for Fitzwilliam Darcy and had been his masterpiece at the centre of the house – purposely intended to impress visiting guests and showcase his immense and increasing wealth.  At the far end of the room was a floor length mirror, which gave the illusion of a never-ending length of rooms, the oak panelling was highly-decorated and ornate, having been completed by the same master who had completed rooms at Blenheim and Chatsworth. In the centre of the ceiling hung a magnificent chandelier, glinting with crystal and illuminated with over twenty bulbs, it was the original light fitting installed by Fitzwilliam in his grand refurbishments of the mid-1800s. Lizzy had always wondered how many people it had taken to light all the candles each evening in the days before electricity - she had a quick flashback to holding a rickety ladder whilst Sybil changed a lightbulb the night before Winston’s 75th birthday party, and then the dramatics that had ensued as the seventy year old had climbed the wooden frame dressed in heels and a floor-length evening gown.

She walked over to the window, lifting the sash and locking it in place before opening the bottom half of the door, the smell of early August wafted in, the fragrance from the magnolia tree growing on the island in the centre of the lake, its white flowers looking like popped popcorn from this far away.

“You excited?” She asked her daughter, who looked grown up and beautiful in the glittery dress which was catching the early evening light, shimmering in the last sunshine of the day.

“Nervous,” she said, holding the stirrup glass firmly in her hand, the bubbles popping and fizzing in the crystal. “Things like this are so not my scene at all.”

“Well,” her Mum smiled, “no-one would ever be able to tell… you have more poise and grace in your little finger than me and Aunt Maggie put together.”

“I miss Maggie,” she sighed, “I wish she could be here tonight… no offence, Mum, but she would take much better pictures...”

“That’s because she has a Fine Arts degree!” Lizzy sipped her champagne, “I miss her too. It’s a shame she couldn’t get here. Your dad will be sending her lots of pictures I guess once you get there?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “He is going to be so embarrassing, I can already tell.”

“Be nice to your dad,” her mum chastised. “He bought you those very expensive shoes.”

Harriet laughed, she thought the champagne would probably go straight to her head. She didn’t even like it really, but this was a Darcy tradition, apparently, and they all must be observed. She twisted the signet ring on her little finger that had been in her jewellery box for as long as she could remember. It fit her now, but it did make her feel terribly upper class with its engraved coat of arms and her name and the family motto engraved on the inside. One made out of many.

Harriet often wondered what it would have been like to have grown up here without all the rules and restrictions of the HHS; you couldn’t have a friend decide to visit spontaneously as they needed the code for the gate, the code for the door and then you had to go and meet them at the porters’ lodge and escort them upstairs. You also couldn’t loiter about in the garden after hours either, unless you wanted to get told off, and barbecues were a definite no-no as they found out a few summers ago when the Fire Brigade were called.

Despite it being far from a normal life, Harriet knew that even though she was a Darcy, she was going to do what she wanted. She wasn’t going to live her life in the shadow of anyone, and she was certain that Fitzwilliam wouldn’t have wanted her to either. There was a miniature of him in a case under the stairs; looking young and excited about his future, before his dad died and left him in charge of the Darcy estates. So much responsibility, the lives of hundreds of people held in his immature twenty-three-year-old hands – no wonder he ran off to Hertfordshire and fell in love with the first woman to tell him no.

“You alright, H?” Lizzy noticed her daughter looking wistfully up at the

“Yeah, just thinking about Fitzwilliam and his strange obsession with gilded wood,” she pointed to the chandelier. “Gold in general, to be honest, it’s like his brief was ‘show the whole of Derbyshire how much money I have’, look at it all, what must he have been thinking?”

“We could ask him, but you know Mr Darcy only works on Wednesdays.”

She smiled at the joke her mum always told, “be serious, Mum.”

Harriet rolled her eyes as the older Darcy downed her final glass of champagne and placed the glass rim down on the marble-topped table.

“I just hope that he’s proud of us, proud of me.”

 “I can’t think of any reason why Fitzwilliam Darcy wouldn’t be proud of you, Harriet. He always had a deep admiration for girls who knew their own mind and their own heart, as well as beautiful ones with a great intelligence and fiery temper.”  She pulled her in close as they both looked out over the lake, “I think you would make him very proud. You make me very proud, Harriet Sophia Darcy. Very proud indeed.”

Harriet smiled up at her mum; they had a fun life here together at Pemberley, but she knew that it was coming to an end. This was the first step towards leaving home and she wondered what her mum would do when she wasn’t around to argue with about laundry and allowances and being picked up from Lambton. Her mum was still quite young, Harriet thought; still young enough to find someone nice and have some babies, even. She would hate to think of her rattling about the house, or being all maudlin and stern like Sybil, the other great Darcy spinster who had been shunted off to a nursing home in Kympton. She loved her great Aunt, was going to see her tomorrow with Prom pictures, but didn’t want her mum to live out her future in the past like Sybil did.

Harriet observed her carefully; she was gazing out at lake, looking very aristocratic in her fifties style dress with the pinched in waist, her hair curled into a sophisticated up-do. She always found it amusing that the woman who adored crappy television and terrible trash novels was a lady of the realm, entitled to wear tiaras and attend actual royal functions, although she never did. Lizzy turned and smiled, surprised at being caught unawares, Harriet grinned back, gulped down her champagne and placed the empty glass upside down next to its partner.


	28. Elizabeth 1820

It was June when the news arrived of the death of Lieutenant George Wickham, who had sadly perished at the battle of Waterloo – the Newcastle regiments had suffered the highest casualties of any British troops, with nearly all Officers belonging to it being lost on the day. Darcy was handed the letter by his steward, Willis, absorbed the details of his brother in law’s demise and then mounted his horse to travel to the Wickham household on the far reaches of the estate.

Old Mr Wickham had been a good and honourable man and Darcy’s father, George, had trusted him implicitly – the role of steward was a venerated position in the household, being responsible for the estate in the absence of the master. Whilst Wickham’s son had had ideas above his station and attempted to ingratiate himself in to the higher reaches of society, his wife, Eleanor, and remaining children were hard working and devoted members of the Pemberley estate and continued to be well-looked after and favoured by the Darcy family.  Peter, the second eldest Wickham, worked as an under-butler, whilst his brother David was second coachman. Bridget, the only daughter, had been skilled in sugar craft and had been utilised by Mrs Reynolds and the Chef, Mr Artaud, in the kitchens, before marrying a local cousin and raising a family of her own.

Darcy was dreading telling Eleanor that George was not coming home from Waterloo; she had cried something dreadful when he had bought the commission to the Newcastle regiment and now this would destroy her. She was a soft, welcoming woman who had held him as a young man after his father had passed away and he had run away to Paddock Cottage on the edge of the woods to escape his family responsibilities. He had no secrets from Eleanor Wickham. Travelling through Knightslow Wood, he felt a small shiver of regret that his last words to George Wickham had been ones of anger, and he wished that things could have been different between them.

 

Raised almost as brothers, he had been closer to Wickham than anyone else in the world, and they had grown together, as boys, as young men… It had been George Wickham who had travelled with him to Cambridge as they studied together, he was always more daring – always wanting to drink a glass more, ride a little harder, study a little less – at the end of their second year it was clear that his friend was not destined for the Church as their fathers had decided. Darcy would have assisted Wickham in any profession that he desired; he knew that his own fortuitous situation in life was based upon the luck of his birth and wanted to do anything he could to help his friend and brother find success.

Darcy had an easy going and loyal nature; it was true that he could be obtuse and distant with those he did not know, and he was quick to judge people based on initial impressions, but he was fiercely devoted to those he loved. It was this that made the continual betrayals by George Wickham especially difficult to bear. Firstly, he ran up debts in Darcy’s name with local innkeepers and merchants – resulting in Darcy receiving a beating one evening when returning home to his lodgings. Wickham had laughed jovially upon seeing his friends bloodied face and ripped coat, before flouncing out of the door with a young lady of questionable reputation on his arm.

It was after the death of George Darcy that Wickham’s behaviour escalated. Darcy - grieving, scared, drowning under the weight of the responsibility of the huge Darcy estates and the guardianship of his sister – gave in to his friend, lending him large sums of money and paying for his lodgings and bills. Wickham genuinely cared for Darcy, but he cared for himself more. He knew that old Mr Darcy had bequeathed him the living of Kympton – a clergyman! There were a lot of roles that George Wickham could assume, but he was most definitely not a man of the cloth, could not bear the thought of preaching about a non-existent God to a dreary bunch of worshippers before returning home to a less than comely wife and dull children. No, the Darcys had shown Wickham life outside of his social sphere and he knew that he was charming enough, handsome enough and a good enough lover to snare himself a reasonably wealthy widow who could offer him a good life in more respectable society, if not he was sure he could convince an heiress that he was half in love and marry her before she was any the wiser. His was not to be a life left languishing in mediocrity.

Darcy had been expecting the announcement of Wickham’s arrival at the house in Grosvenor Square since nine. He had risen early and dressed suitably, his countenance dominated by grief, his demeanour carrying the weight of his heritage. Wickham believed that being a Darcy was about parties, balls, women and wine – but he forgot that the true inheritance of being Fitzwilliam Darcy was being responsible for hundreds of people and a massive estate that encompassed thousands of acres. George Wickham did not understand this because on the days when he had been taken by his father fishing on the river, or swimming in the lake, Darcy had been in the schoolroom on the second floor of the house, learning how to maximise the profits of his estates, how to run a household, manage staff and maintain the general level of comfort and respectability that his family were used to.

 

Wickham entered the oak panelled room and took a seat without being asked. Darcy visibly rumpled at the polished gentleman before him. He was the same height as Darcy but carried himself with a different air – one of arrogant, but undeserved, superiority. His clothes were always of the finest cloth and he had an aura of one who was comfortably affluent. Darcy himself did not, as a rule; he was shaven and clean, but he had not purchased a new suit since his graduation from Cambridge and he failed to keep up with the latest fashionable trends, more focused on keeping his affairs in order.

“Fitzwilliam,” Wickham stated with a forced geniality. “How the devil are you?”

He placed his hat on the desk, Darcy noticed that it was made from finest beaver pelt and looked relatively new, he wondered how much this fashion would eventually cost his own purse, given as it was that he was currently subsidising Wickham’s lifestyle to an alarming degree.

“As well as can be expected,” he stated solemnly. He had no desire to reveal anything of his heart to George Wickham.

“Death of a father is a terrible thing,” he said shaking his head. “Why it has been but three years since my own passed on. It has been hard for my mother, of course. One suspected that Peter would have inherited the position of Steward, but I can see that it was not meant to be.”

Everything Wickham said was pointed. Every remark made designed to inflict hurt. He did nothing without fully thinking it through.

“Peter was offered the chance to train to be a steward, George,” Darcy corrected. “But he declined it as he felt much more comfortable in the stables, you understand that. Have you been to see your mother recently?”

“She has been ill with a fever these last few weeks and I have stayed in town in order to prevent the spread of it.”

“Mrs Wickham was in perfectly good health last Thursday week when I visited her.”

George visibly wavered. He was all for the appearance of outward respectability but did not like being questioned or contradicted in his assurances.

“Ah, yes,” he agreed. “I admit I have been away longer than anticipated. It is not as easy to travel back to Derbyshire when one has to travel by post, I would not expect you to understand as you always have the luxury of the coach.”

“Actually,” Darcy stated. “I have been travelling back and forth on horseback. I find it takes less time and costs a lot less money than the coach. Besides which, my sister Georgiana is currently visiting Ramsgate with her companion and I thought it better for her to have exclusive use of it for the season.”

“Why, yes,” Wickham agreed. “What a splendid idea. The seaside will do her a great deal of good after the last few months of sadness. Losing a parent when one is so young will obviously have an impact.”

“Well, quite,” Darcy snapped.

Both men knew why Wickham was here, it was not to make pleasant small talk or exchange niceties. He was here to receive what was coming to him under the wishes of Mr Darcy’s will. There had already been an exchange of correspondence between Wickham and the Darcy attorneys in Lambton and Darcy had already granted his former friend a sum of three thousand pounds instead of the living at Kympton, in addition to the thousand pounds that he had already been granted as Mr Darcy’s godson. Taking the envelope from Darcy, which he promptly placed in his inside coat pocket, Wickham offering his hand and Darcy reluctantly shook it. He sincerely hoped that this would be the last he would see of George Wickham.

 

Eleanor had howled; long low moans of grief at the death of her firstborn son. Peter and David had been told the news up at the main house and travelled back to the cottage as soon as they could, Bridget lived in Lambton and Darcy had sent a man there to fetch her before he had left for the cottage. The Wickhams were like a second family to him and he shared in their grief, holding Bridget in his arms like a sister as she wept.

“What about Lydia, Fitzwilliam,” Eleanor asked. “What will happen to Lydia?”

Darcy had not thought about his sister by marriage, but it stood to reason that he would send the coach to Newcastle for her.

“She will come and stay at Pemberley with us and I will send her to you once she has settled.”

“You know that she is with child, Fitzwilliam?”

If Darcy visibly blanched then he did well to hide it, he had not been aware that Lydia was pregnant, and he wasn’t too enthusiastic about a child of George Wickham’s being raised at Pemberley.

“I did not know, but this is remarkably good news on this sad day, Eleanor.”

Mrs Wickham looked at him wistfully, “yes,” she said sadly. “But I cannot bring myself to be happy about it today.”

Darcy left the family to their grief, promising to make all the suitable arrangements for burial and service, and to ensure that Lydia would be safely at Pemberley within the next week. Mounting his horse, he rode back to the house the long way around, it was dusk, and he had been at the cottage for longer than he had intended.

 

Lydia Wickham arrived ten days later with three trunks and a list of creditors. She was large with child and her usual frivolous and self-centred self. Dressed in a black velvet gown and with her hair curled high upon her head, she looked every inch the demanding duchess and summoned her sister as if calling for a maid. Darcy did not understand how Elizabeth could stand deferring to her sister in such a way, and he had Lydia and her various possessions placed in one of the less impressive bedrooms in an act of rebellion against her. She had ordered three mourning dresses and charged them to the Darcy account, as well as several bonnets and hats. Darcy trusted that her stay would be short, hopeful that the Bingleys would be willing to receive her at Dunham for the duration of her confinement.

The funeral passed with little drama, even from Lydia whose emotions were muted on the unseasonably overcast day. Darcy himself felt empty as the walnut coffin was lowered into the Wickham plot at the church in Lambton and he held onto his wife’s hand as if trying to make sense of it all. It was Elizabeth who encouraged her husband to grieve for George Wickham in the days that followed, to remember the past with as much pleasure as he could.

Despite the incident at Ramsgate and his dastardly elopement with her own sister, Elizabeth was fully aware that Wickham had been a charming and affable man, and after conversing with Darcy about his childhood and his life before her, she knew that some of his positive qualities were as a direct result of knowing him. It was because of having to pay off his friend’s debts at the tailors and hatters in fashionable parts town that Darcy had begun to invest in himself; paying for newly tailored suits more befitting his status, buying himself beaver pelt top hats and spending time at the theatre and recitals.

It was because of Wickham that Darcy had a sense of adventure – usually young men would travel to the continent after finishing their studies, but due to Napoleon’s dominance of Europe, the two men had travelled to the Far East – visiting Cairo and Greece. They had returned to Pemberley with tales of their exploits and the sights they had seen, and artefacts from the holy lands that were on display around the house, as well as lengths of exotic silks and satins. It was talking about these escapades and remembering the aspects of his youth that Wickham had positively enhanced, which forced Darcy to remember George with fondness. It was only then that he truly mourned the loss of a brother and friend.


	29. Lizzy

Lizzy was halfway up the grand staircase when she heard the distant sound of unexpected music echoing around the house… she felt sudden shiver creep down her spine despite the staircase being warm from the August heat. Pemberley had been around for too long to not have at least a few resident ghosts – the White Lady being only one – but she had never heard of the house being inhabited by one that played music, although there had been stories of ghostly partners dancing a waltz in the drawing room. Lizzy followed the sound of the music, any apprehension being removed – was that Mr Beveridge’s Maggot? – walking slowly down the stairs, she unhooked the velvet ropes with a subtle clink. Quietly, with all the lightness of a prima ballerina, she delicately stepped down the staircase; the music seemed to be coming from the Entrance Hall and she followed the melody as it gradually increased in volume.

To call it an Entrance Hall was unfair, Lizzy thought. This was a large decadent room complete with four huge columns and hung with 17th century tapestries on three of the walls, one of which was dominated by the marble fireplace commissioned by Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy, and the huge portraits of Sir Piers D’Arcy and his wife, Matilda, which were displayed facing each other at opposite ends. The room dated from the day the house was built and used to form part of the medieval banqueting hall – it stood on a level all of its own and was the grandest and most impressive room in the building. Along with the Saloon and dining room, it formed the main entertaining suite of the Darcy family and had been home to numerous celebrations throughout its history. She stepped tentatively down the smaller set of steps that led the way.

The music was louder now, the unmistakable rhythm and melody from her childhood echoing through the corridor, she was immediately taken back to being twelve years old and performing country dances in the courtyard with Winston and his mish-mash troop of dancers, led by Mrs Winifred Wharton, who he had obviously been very much in love with. Her pulse was racing slightly though, as the sound system in the Hall – usually programmed to play a loop of piano music – shouldn’t be playing right now unless triggered by movement, She wasn’t sure if ghosts could trigger motion sensors. Don’t be daft Lizzy, she chastised, you know every inch of this house. Still, she hid behind the post and peeked around it, unsure of what she might see.

“What are you doing?”

She walked down the steps and directly towards the sweaty and dishevelled form of Benn Williams, he had been so engrossed in trying to remember the steps for the blasted dance that he hadn’t even heard Lizzy clomping towards him in polka dot heels. She always clomped everywhere, he thought.

“Hey!” He smiled, happy to see her but confused as to why she was here. “Joyce said that you weren’t here this weekend… aren’t you and Harriet meant to be in London with Matthew?”

“Oh no, that’s tomorrow.” she shook her head, “Just me and my profiteroles tonight!”

She looked at him quizzically as she kicked off her heels, standing in her bare feet on the wooden floorboards and took a seat on one of the chairs as if waiting for his performance.

“Are you dancing?”

He had been in rehearsals for this over the last few weeks and it was taking ages to sink in, even Jenny and Franklin had totally perfected it and he was clonking about like Frankenstein’s monster, feeling huge and weighty. He had spoken to Joyce yesterday and, as he wasn’t due in Shepperton for another two days, she had said that he could spend some time in the house and practice to try and get a feel for Fitzwilliam who had been, so the history books stated, very good at dancing.

The sweat on his brow and his red face gave it away, he nodded. “This is like a gym workout, y’know.”

Lizzy laughed, “don’t say that too loudly or ‘Mr Darcy’s Regency Workout’ will be available on shelves before you know it!”

He took a swig of water before returning the bottle to his bag on the far side of the room. Joyce had been very specific about not eating or drinking on this side of the rope.

“Do you know this dance?”

She nodded vigorously, and he noticed the crinkle above her nose. She was wearing a dress covered in a cactus print and those mad shoes again, ladybirds this time which were discarded by the door, but he liked it. He liked her.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

For the next hour, Benn listened to Lizzy explain to him the intricacies of Mr Beveridge’s Maggot and why it was the go-to dance for Pride and Prejudice as the way it was choreographed meant that Elizabeth and Darcy moved up and down the longways dance and were constantly forced to face each other. They walked through the dance, moving together and then apart – substituting a card table and a chair as the other couple. She might be a bit rusty, she thought, but surely dancing was like riding a bike, something you never forget.

“I always used to think it was called ‘Maggot’ because of the way everyone moved up and down the dance,” she confided, as she sat down flustered on the large yellow settee in the centre of the room after they had been dancing for an hour.

“I’m guessing it’s not because of that then,” he took a seat next to her and they took a moment to appreciate their surroundings and the enormous room that was now settling into dusk.

“No,” she sighed. “It means ‘fancy’, so really the dance and the song are called Mr Beveridge’s Fancy.

“I imagine Mr Beveridge was very fancy, he sounds it.” He smirked at her, taking a large gulp from his water bottle.

“He does! Y’know Darcy and Elizabeth did actually dance this on the night of the Netherfield Ball,” she confessed. “They also used to dance it on the front lawn, embarrassing their children...”

“How do you know that?”

He caught a look pass across her face as she leaned back on the couch that they should most definitely not be sitting on.

“If I told you, I would have to kill you.”

“Well, as long as you made it quick,” he nudged her with his elbow as she thought about it.

“I have their letters; they were the one thing that Winston left to me specifically. They’re amazing to read, so many insights into who they were…”

“I can imagine,” he was genuinely interested. “They sound fascinating.”

“They are, but no-one knows I have them. You have to keep some things secret, don’t you?”

“Could I have a look?”

She paused for a minute, let the thought roll about her head.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I trust you.”

It must be strange for her, he thought, having people act out the love story of your ancestors in the house where it all happened.

“I can’t even begin to imagine growing up in a place like this.”

“It was strange,” she caught his glance from the corner of her eye. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

He observed her closely, she was so passionate about her heritage, about all the things that had come before. Inside he was concerned that she was grasping at the past so hard that it was preventing her from living her life in the here and now.

“Do you ever feel the pressure of being a Darcy…” he asked carefully, “I mean, the legacy of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, that's massive.”

“Yeah," she nodded. "It is massive, but there's no pressure with it..."

 “I just… I just wonder sometimes if the weight of it stops you from doing what you want,” he hesitated for a moment, “you told me that wanted to be an English teacher, but you’re a solicitor because that’s what Darcys always do; and you wanted to travel, but the furthest you go is to France or London to see your dad and then you come straight back to Derbyshire.”

Her face was beginning to sour, that crinkle above her brow turning into a frown and he immediately began to retreat.

“I don’t mean that to offend you,” he continued, “but I’m sure that Fitzwilliam would have wanted you to do what made you happy… From what I have learned about him he always followed his heart.”

She softened slightly, but he realised that he had touched a nerve, “you haven’t offended me, I totally understand where you are coming from.” Her gaze was focused on the floor now; she was fiddling with her nail, twisting the ring with the green stone on her finger, “But, Pemberley hasn’t lasted for six hundred years because we all simply did what we wanted.”

“I’m sorry I said that, it was rather rude of me,” he apologised

“You don’t need to say sorry. Maybe you’re better at being Mr Darcy than you thought.” It was okay now, he knew that even though she wouldn’t forget what he said, she wasn’t going to argue with him about it. He glanced over at her and she looked away quickly, rising to his feet he did a bow and held out his hand in his most gentlemanly way.

“Lady Elizabeth, may I request your hand for the next two dances?”

She hesitated for a moment before reaching for his hand and he pulled her up from the couch. Mis-stepping she fell into him, she was close, so close that he could smell her perfume and that sweet, warm scent that was all her own. She breathed him in for quiet instant before remembering herself and pushing him gently back into his starting position.

“Mr Williams, such a level of impropriety will not suffice,” she announced with a cheeky grin. “We have at least five years before the Waltz becomes fashionable and this level of dancefloor fondling is permitted,” she grinned as she set the music playing. “But right now this kind of malarkey is just a threat to my virtue!”

“Do you make a habit of dancing with strange men you barely know?”

“Always,” she grinned.

They moved together as the dance began; moving together and then apart, concentrating on the complicated movements. She wasn’t sure what she felt each time his hand touched hers, but she was sure that it was a little bit like lightning.


	30. John William Darcy - 1756

John William Darcy surveyed the scene in from of him. Glittering with diamonds, smothered in satin and powdered to perfection was his beautiful wife, Isabella, bent over the wooden table in the quiet fragrance of the still room, and being roughly taken by one of their dinner guests, his wig was tilted to one side, his cravat loose and his breeches flapping around his ankles. He watched for moment, unseen, before returning to the dining room, the dancing and their waiting company.

At twenty-two, he had inherited a near bankrupt estate, a dilapidated house and was tied to paying a crippling annuity to the Royal Household.  Pemberley had suffered greatly after the death of his grandfather, Cyril; his own father, Richard, had neither the aptitude for estate management or the desire to live in the country, especially when the pull of London society was so great, and he took the fortunes built by his ancestors and frittered them away at the gambling tables of St James Palace,

John William Darcy was a respectable and somewhat god-fearing gentleman of twenty-eight years of age, and he realised that his responsibility was to restore the family fortunes in the only way currently open to him; marrying rich.  Embarking on the hunt for suitable bride, Darcy was feted by gentlemen of trade – newly monied and fashionable - who longed to see their daughters lauded in higher social circles and as mothers to heirs of venerable old family estates. One such gentleman was Roger De Stratton, a merchant from the far North, who had made his fortune in cotton. He had invested wisely in new processes and procedures, his wealth and new business empire continuing to grow.

John William Darcy was not a romantic man, but Isabella Stratton was beautiful, and whilst John thought that he could have eventually found himself in love with her pretty features, smart retorts and ability to laugh heartily at herself, it was clear that her affections and her heart lay elsewhere, although unfortunately with a gentleman already in possession of a wife. Their wedding was a grand and lavish affair, with her father footing the bill for the banquet and the wedding jewels. The new Mrs Darcy was as smart as her father, and had times been different she may have eventually found herself in charge of Stratton Mills, rather than as mistress of Pemberley. Holding up her end of the bargain, she was faithful to John and bore him three children – two sons and a daughter – before promptly abandoning them to live in Paris with her French aristocratic lover, who had promised her the moon on a stick and a ribbon wrapped around it. It would have been most agreeable for this forthright woman of fortune to have lived a long and happy life on the continent, however, she was found dead in her bed seven years later, her jewels stolen, her purse emptied and her lover nowhere to be found.

John William Darcy raised his children as best he could – he taught them always that their duty was to Pemberley first and to their own wants and desires second. He hoped that they could find a path in life that would be a perfect blend of the two. With his wife now returned to England and placed in the family mausoleum at Lambton, John tried to fight the waves of depression and grief that washed over him with increasing regularity. His family coffers were now restored, and he boosted them by selling parcels of land from the far ends of the estate and investing his money wisely. He continued to repeat to himself, over and over, that he was not a romantic man, that he did not need the pull of a wife to distract him from his duty to his estate and his responsibilities as an MP for the local area. He pushed on with his parliamentary work, never inattentive, and focusing on anything other than looking for a new bride, but John William Darcy realised too late that a life without love is a miserable one indeed. One late February morning, a few days before his fiftieth birthday, he walked into the oldest part of the woods and blew his brains out.

It was classed as a hunting accident for purposes of report, even though it was deemed peculiar – the shot being close range and hunting out of season.

 


	31. Lizzy

Of all the talks Lizzy presented in the small chapel at Pemberley, her favourite was the one about John William Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s grandfather; she thought he was such an interesting and tragic figure that it was pity his efforts and achievements were mainly overlooked by the fictional version of his grandson. As much as she loved telling people the real story of Darcy and Elizabeth, she wished that sometimes they would ask about some of the other characters who had walked down these halls and been married in this very chapel, rather than having to point them in the direction of Mr Darcy’s Pond, which was over a mile away through the parkland and where no-one actually wanted to walk.

Usually the room was packed full of part-time historians and everyday visitors who were eager to learn more about this elusive gentleman, especially after The Guardian ran an article on him a few months back. Today the room was mainly empty as the bulk of her usual crowd outside watching the filming, the only audience members were the plump, eager girl who was here every weekend pretty much mouthing the words, two German tourists who looked confused; and beaming at her from the back row was Benn Williams, dressed in full Regency costume and looking every inch the historical re-enactment professional.

“That was very impressive,” he walked over to her once the talk had finished, making the plump girl look at him starstruck, before she started texting frantically on her phone.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asked, “more importantly, did you learn anything?”

“Well, I learned that ‘Wo sind die Toiletten?’ is German for ‘where are the loos?’”

She smiled, glad that her theory about the backpack clad couple was correct, and glad to see him. He had been away for a few days, back to London to see Esther and Anya who had been sent over to their grandmother’s house in Kensington and recording a small voice part for an animated film called ‘Puffins in Space’, which his youngest daughter was terribly excited about. Lizzy knew she would be lying if she said she hadn’t missed him. He was grinning at her, like a child with a surprise gift, the excitement bursting out of him and he held out a small bag; she recognised the pink branding, the ribbon tied around the top, and inside a full box of rose and violet flavoured macarons.

“Thank you,” she said softly, with a grateful smile, before giving him an awkward hug. She was surprised that he had remembered her telling him about the shop on Portobello Road that she frequented, her love of floral flavoured confections never a secret.

“I couldn’t resist,” he smiled, “you have an hour, right?”

She nodded, already wanting to unfasten the pink and white striped ribbon and dip her hand into the fuchsia coloured box.

“In that case, I’ve come to rescue you.” He offered his arm, and she linked her own around it with a smile on her face. “It’s a glorious day out there and I really fancy a strawberry cornetto.”

They walked along the corridor hidden in the cloisters of the house, feeling dark in the shadows of the summer sunshine, before walking out into the bright glare. Lizzy was always amazed at how cool the ground floors rooms at Pemberley could be, and the heat of morning hit her as if she was getting off a plane somewhere humid and hot. They sat on the rocks at the base of Cage Hill, taking shade under one of the myriad of trees that dotted the landscape, the soft ice-cream melting quickly despite the shelter, as they chatted and laughed.

“I am sick of breeches,” he whinged pitifully, “I’m going to tell Dan no more period dramas…not unless he can get me on Game of Thrones.”

“Game of Thrones?” She snorted, “you only want to ride a dragon…they’re not real, you know.”

He gawped at her, open mouthed, “are you joking?” He grinned widely and nudged her, causing her cone to dash against her cheek.

“No need to be a sarky git,” she wiped the ice cream from her chin. “Besides which, you just want to get your hands on that hot young blonde!”

“Young? She’s older than me!”

“Noooooo!”

“Nine years older, in fact”

“Seriously? Poppy Maurice?” Lizzy paused for a moment, “well, she looks amazing.”

“All lies though,” he said shaking his head. “All lies. I worked with her once on a sitcom – was bloody awful, ‘Welfare Fate’, she had her original face then, and she went by the name of Polly Morris. She was beautiful though, really something, y’know.”

He looked wistful, and she decided to prod him, “did you…y’know…?”

A cheeky smile crossed his face as he crunched the last bit of his cone, “a gentleman never tells, Lizzy, you know that…”

She watched carefully as the production team swarmed over the gardens, licking her cornetto happily, observing the army of people busily setting up the scenes for the publicity shots that were being taken today. She realised lunch was over when she saw a small figure marching towards them, holding a clipboard under her arm and trying to hold onto her headset and radio simultaneously as she plodded awkwardly across the grass.

“I think you might be being called to set, Mr Darcy,” Lizzy prompted, watching as he rose to his feet, batting off grass from the offensive breeches.

 “Farewell, Lady Elizabeth Darcy, I shall see you this eventide,” he swaggered, taking her hand and kissing it an overly dramatic fashion. “And does the Lady require cheesecake!”

She laughed, “why, most definitely!”

“Really? You have twenty-four macarons there!”

“Yes, and they are all for me!” She did an evil laugh, “and you are a fool for thinking otherwise.” Looking up at him, with all seriousness now, “you didn’t need to buy these, thank you, I know how hideously expensive they are. You really are incorrigible.”

“I am,” he pouted looking extremely Darcy like.  “I own half of Derbyshire – my ego is as large as my fortune and you, Lady Elizabeth, are only tolerable,” he began to walk off in an overly theatrical manner towards the runner, who was waving at him frantically, taking the time to say hello and sign autographs for a couple of volunteers who were on their lunch break.

*

He arrived at half past six as promised, his Darcy hair now pomade free and unruly, holding a box from the little bakery in Lambton with the required cheesecake. She had heated up some party food from M&S and they sat together on the couch, her legs swung over his as he nibbled on a mini sausage roll and flicked through the channels on the TV. She screamed out when she saw him on the screen, making him jump, knock the table and caused his drink to spill, small pools of coffee forming around the base of the cup.

“Fuckssake, Lizzy, what the shit!”

“It’s you!” She shrieked in a tone that he suspected only dogs could hear.

Giddy with excitement, she slapped him on the thigh, directing his attention to the television. The muscly macho action hero Henry Jones, shooting up villains, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, getting the girl and doing it all whilst doling out suave one liners and sipping whisky on the rocks; he was currently driving a superfast, supercharged sportscar down a winding, twisting Swiss road.

Benn groaned, he hated watching himself; ‘Illusion of Fire’ was something he had never expected to be offered. The iconic role had been amazing to film, but it had also been hard and exhausting; there had been the four months of training and his insistence on doing some of his own stunts – Tom Cruise setting the bar very high in that respect – resulted in a painful knee injury that played up occasionally, and an accident where he had been unconscious for three days after being hit on the head caused both the studio and his agent to panic for different reasons.  The remaining two parts, ‘The Hustler’s Door’ and ‘Dangerous Horizon’ had been filmed back to back, resulting in him being away from home for nearly ten months. He got paid well; enough to pay off the mortgage on their overpriced house ten times over, but he missed so much – his daughters had started school, learned how to ride bikes - and when he watched the films now, as exciting and fun as they were, he wasn’t entirely convinced that it had been worth it.

This instalment of the Henry Jones story was bittersweet for him, now that he remembered; each part of the trilogy followed the same formula, with a bad Jones girl – who inevitably reached a sad and gory ending – and a good Jones girl, who he ended the film with. It had been his wife who had taken on the role of Octavia Bond, the MI6 agent turned rogue, who met a brutal ending under the swift sharp blade of a guillotine. Benn had thought that it would be fun working with Madeleine for the two weeks in the Bahamas that it took to film her scenes; but he was wrong. When they were on set it was fine, but afterwards in the hotel room she had been cold and distant, refusing to tell him what was wrong, even as they had boarded the plane home, he had sensed that even if nothing was wrong, nothing was right about this either. Thankfully they had turned the movie on halfway through and Octavia Bond had already lost her head. He didn’t think he could watch the scenes he had shared with the mother of his children, not even now; it was still too difficult sometimes to see her face on the television screen, still too hard to hear her voice.

Lizzy jumped and laughed throughout the film, even in the parts that weren’t supposed to be funny, and he had cringed during the multiple love scenes, especially the ones with Rosie Schaffer who was, as far as the public was concerned, the reason for his wife leaving him.

“I don’t know how you manage to do it, y’know,” she shouted from the kitchen later that evening, when they eaten the cheesecake and she was busy decanting macarons onto a dark blue plate and refilling coffee cups.

He got up from the couch and followed her to the centre of the room, where she stood at the kitchen island pouring out the coffee into their mugs.

“Manage to do what?” He walked over casually, grabbing a violet macaron and devouring it, as she handed him his mug.

“The romance stuff…” she busied herself washing a few pots in the sink and then continued casually, “I know you had the Darcy and Elizabeth kiss today and, apart from a few weeks of faffing about on set, you haven’t really met Jenny Graves before… have you?”

“No, but she does make me feel like Mr Darcy should be on some kind of register.” He quipped dryly, sipping his coffee. “She’s the right age though, not her fault that I’m old enough to be her dad.”

“She is very young, isn’t she?” Lizzy wondered as she dried her hands, the young actress was only four years older than Harriet and it had suddenly made her feel positively ancient. “She is brilliant though, I adored her in ‘Soul Shine Blue’, so talented…”

“Do you have a point here, Darcy?”

He glanced up at her over his mug and wondered where on earth she was going with this; he knew her well enough now to realise that her train of thought often took her somewhere wonderful and strange.

“Yes,” she huffed. “It takes me ages to get used to someone at work, but _you…”_ she pointed at him, “you have to walk straight on set and start snogging someone and acting like you love them and stuff. It takes me about four weeks to remember that they don’t have sugar!” She slurped her coffee. “How do you make it seem so real?”

“It’s easy,” he laughed

He tried to think about the first screen kiss he had done, and the totally unromantic sex scenes, where all your bits were covered up and you breathed in hard hoping that you didn’t look too hideous. You were constantly aware that a burly group of strangers knew you had a birthmark on your bum, whilst all the time trying to remember lines and thrusting in the general direction of a woman who had spent most of her time on set canoodling with her new husband. This same man who was now eyeing your vulnerable semi-naked body from the corner of the room as you kissed his wife’s breast.

“I find it really weird,” she slurped her coffee, looking at him suspiciously. “How you can kiss someone like that and make it look like you mean it.”

“I am an award-winning actor, Lady Elizabeth…” He jokingly tweaked his imaginary bowtie.

Lizzy raised an eyebrow, “okay then, show me.” She poured another cup of coffee, “kiss me like you kissed Rosie Schaffer – pretend I’m a twenty-year-old actress.”

“I’m not that good,” he teased, and she hit him with a tea towel, retreating to the sofa as he counterattacked.  

“I’m serious; show me how good you are… or are you worried that it will all be terribly disappointing, and I’d have found out your secret?”

Teasingly she poked him on the muscly arm, gently jabbing her finger against his bicep, until he grabbed her around the waist, picked her up off the floor and carried her back towards the kitchen as if she were as light as a feather.

“Okay, you can have the full Benn Williams Experience…” he plopped her down on a stool. “Although, I cannot guarantee that you won’t fall in love with me…” he warned “It has happened before, such is the power of my caress…”

Giddily, she stuck out her tongue and jumped up onto the kitchen island, perching herself on the edge of the thick butcher block counter. Sitting in front of him, her knees level with his waist; he noticed that she was wearing pyjama bottoms with llamas on, and her toes were painted a sparkly red colour. She was giggling, trying desperately hard to keep a straight face; and he found her giddiness infectious, struggling not to laugh himself.

“Hit me with it,” she demanded, the trace of a smile still playing on her lips, swigging the dregs of her coffee and placing the mug down on the counter. She was ready now, paying him her full attention.

“Okay Darcy,” he said firmly, looking her directly in the eye. “The main rule that you have to remember is that it’s not love, it’s acting…”

“Oh, really?” She laughed with sarcastic derision, “you are such an arsehole…”

“It’s happened in the past! Women fall for me, I can’t help it.” He grinned, “secondly; unless the director specifically requests it – no tongue.”

“And what has the director specified… I mean in this instance?”

“He gave us free rein.”

“Sounds kinky… do I need a safe word?”

“The safety word is always ‘rhombus’,” he said seriously.

“So; three, two, one, and scene…” she said.

He thought he was quite a good kisser, and his actress friends had agreed, but that was when he was in character – Robert Tremaine from Fatal Danger kissed angrily, Steven Malis from Praise to the Skies was an unsure, tender smoocher, and Heathcliff had been all smouldering passion and lingering embraces. Benn missed the feeling of kissing someone you really fancied; the first flurries of fizz, which faded into something warmer, something that made you glow on the inside. Screen-kissing wasn’t like that, it was going through the motions, constantly aware of what you are doing, and it took away some of the magic for him, if he was honest.

“Lizzy, I need to check,” he looked serious as he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Are you scared about doing it in case _you_ fall in love with _me_?”

There was a mischievous glint in her eye and he found that he matched it, liking the challenge, the safe and gentle flirtation. Something clicked, like she had pressed his ‘random romantic protagonist’ on switch; he leaned over, in full-on actor mode now, and she sensed the difference in him; he was no longer Benn but a brand-new person she had not met before.

“I always wanted you,” he whispered in an East Coast American accent, moving the curl from her face and glancing his hand down her cheek. “I just never...” he leaned in, his lips grazing her earlobe, murmuring, “I just never knew how to tell you…”

He placed his hands on her thighs and pulled her towards him on the kitchen counter, she slid easily along the surface. It was forceful, it was fast, it was… hot.

“Sorry,” he said, back to Benn, breaking the spell. “I didn’t think… is this okay with you? I need to make sure. I don’t want you to start hash-tagging me at some point in the future.”

She nodded, temporarily under the spell of Benn Williams and his professional Fake Kissing. He pulled her towards him, putting his hands on her shoulders, gazing deeply into her eyes. She wondered why she had never noticed how very blue they were – the deepest darkest depths of the ocean fading out to a bright blue summers’ day -  she wondered why she felt as if he was looking into her very soul.  

“You see, you have captivated me,” he continued in the voice she recognised from ‘Dangerous Horizon’, the words of Henry Jones performed live. “I don’t know who I am when I am around you…”

He leaned in to kiss her, and she felt the heat of his breath on her cheek, the graze of his stubble on her top lip and then the softness of his lips on hers. She was sure he would feel the goosebumps through the thin cotton of her trousers. He pressed on, firmer now, and all she could think of was how good it felt to be kissed hard by someone who knew how…

“What the hell?”

Harriet called out from the stairs, standing in her pyjamas, as she watched her mum and Benn Williams kissing in the kitchen.

“I thought you hated him!”

She walked down and past them, straight to the fridge before retreating back upstairs with her loot. Lizzy hopped down from the counter and smiled apologetically at the man who had just been running his fingers through her hair and kissing her face.

“Well?”

“Impressive.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

She walked him down to the staff entrance at the side of the house, where his car was parked. The air was cool and the sky above Pemberley was cloudy and close, and they could feel the oncoming rainstorm hovering over the moorland. There was a moment when she noticed him looking at her, as if he was trying to figure her out and it immediately made her feel a bit shy and self-conscious. But more than that, he found himself thinking about the way her nose crinkled up when she was talking about something with passion, or the way her eyes sparkled when she was teasing him, the way she smelled of sugary, gingery warmth; when he had kissed her, he was surprised that even though he had started feeling firm and professional, going through the motions as he would at work, it developed into something that was actually new and real. When he had kissed her the second time; he hadn’t fully gone back into Henry Jones mode, he was still him. He wondered if she had noticed.

Lizzy wandered up the back stairs, the quickest way to her flat from the front of the house – she was unsure what tonight was. It hadn’t felt how she thought it would feel. It felt real, but that was ridiculous, because she didn’t fancy Benn Williams and she was pretty damn sure he didn’t fancy her either. They were simply friends, and it must have been because of that. It had to be. Walking back across the Bright Gallery, past the marble busts of Darcy and Elizabeth, she giggled at the absurdity of it, wondering how she would explain it to Deb at work, or if she would explain it at all.

Maybe some things were meant to be kept secret and special and locked in our hearts just for us.


	32. Elizabeth - 1830

Lydia Wickham was never known for her subtlety, in fact it was one of the many reasons why her esteemed brother-in-law Charles Bingley very rarely invited her to stay with his family in Dunham, preferring instead to refer her to Pemberley, which had more rooms and bigger estate with which to escape from her and her raucous brood. It had only been two years after the death of Lieutenant George Wickham that his widow had remarried a highly eligible, if older, gentleman of fashion called William Hart. Darcy had not been sure if Lydia had been motivated by love or by the Hart family fortune, but he approved of the match and did much to secure it for his sister. The family of five, consisting of the posthumously born George Wickham-Hart who was now eight, the three-year-old twins Emma and Eliza, and their parents, were visiting Pemberley for Easter, along with Mr and Mrs Bennet, who were travelling up from Hertfordshire, and the Bingley brood. The visit was planned for three weeks and Elizabeth was delighted that she would be surrounded by her family for this happy time.

William Hart was a good man from a good family, they owned a portion of the Lancashire coalfields on which their fortune was built. He had a handsome and refined air, enjoying the pleasures which music and literature provided, but he was also a large, tall man with a stocky frame and he sometimes felt awkward stomping around the ballrooms of Bath trying fruitlessly to keep up with his beloved, who adored dancing. He knew that Lydia, desperate and living with any members of her family who would take her, didn’t love him when he first proposed, even though he was completely enamoured with her. The many qualities of the former Miss Bennet which frustrated her sisters were ones that he was drawn to, and he loved her lightness and silliness. Even though he knew that she didn’t love him, he did all he could to make her want him as a real, true husband – he never wanted to force her or make her feel obliged to him - and it was only after they were wed that William courted his wife and wooed her with ardent desire, treating her as if she were the most precious thing in his life, which she was.

Elizabeth noticed the difference in her sister immediately; she had only seen her fleetingly at family events since her second marriage, but she became aware that rather than being silly, Lydia’s vivacious personality was now tempered into sometimes more beatific. She still sparkled, of course, still demanded the attention of everyone in the room, but now it was only for good. During her time as Mrs Hart, Lydia had learned how to play the harp and now delighted everyone with beautiful recitals in the drawing room, playing on the instrument that Darcy had bought Georgiana as a wedding gift. Mrs Bennet, always the biggest supporter of her youngest daughter, now had genuine reason to rave about her talents and advantageous marriage. Darcy would shoot a knowing look at William during these reveries of their mother-in-law and the gentlemen would politely retire to the cosy comfort of the stag parlour for port and cigars and about an hour’s peace from Mrs Bennet before she demanded attention.

With the Darcy and Hart children firmly tucked away in the nursery, Elizabeth and Lydia were sitting alone in the grand Saloon, the waning sun of early spring catching the opulent gilded woodwork and causing the room to almost glow. The doors to the balcony had been opened to allow fresh air into the room before supper, which was being taken at London time due to their visiting guests. Elizabeth viewed her sister with new eyes; motherhood suited her, and it was obvious that she revelled in being so adored by her youngsters.

Lydia was standing on the balcony, looking over the calm, still lake “I want to apologise to you, Lizzy, for being such a vile sister when I was younger,” she blurted out.

“Vile?” Elizabeth looked confused, “Silly and ridiculous sometimes, but never vile, my dearest Lydia”

Lydia scrunched up her face and shook her head, before taking a seat on the yellow velvet sofa next to her sister.

“I did a terrible thing by running off with Wickham,” she whispered. “I was so determined to have him.”  
“Lydia, nobody blames you for that. You were but fifteen years old and Wickham…”

“Wickham had a terrible reputation. Yes, I know.”

“What can you have done that was so terrible? It was foolish and unthinking, but you were taken advantage of.”

Lydia looked up at her sister, half petrified to reveal the truth about her trip to Brighton and the ensuing elopement that caused so much aggravation and nearly ruined the reputation of the whole Bennet family.

“It wasn’t like that, Lizzy.”

“Sister, pray tell me what happened.” Elizabeth looked at her sister with a concerned expression. She had never really known the details of what had happened, despite asking Darcy to reveal the secrets of the marriage negotiations that she had taken on the family’s behalf. She saw Lydia visibly take a gulp.

“Now Lizzy, if I tell you, you must promise to never reveal this to another soul.”

“Lydia, I promise.”

“I seduced George,” she stated bluntly. “I seduced him one evening when he was drunk on wine and we had been dancing and I went outside with him and we were alone. Then I kissed him.”

“A kiss is one thing, Lydia, but that is not a seduction. I think you are blaming yourself for something that Wickham, a man who was thirteen years older than you, could have avoided.”

“No!” She shook her head. “No, he could not have avoided it, because I made sure that people saw us. Despite his dubious character being known to most of Derbyshire, you must remember how half of us, including Mama, were half in love with Wickham when he was in Meryton, and it was the same in Brighton – everyone loved him, and he was eager to maintain this newfound admiration. He certainly would not have thought about risking it for a poor country girl with no fortune, would he?”

Elizabeth nodded, “but I do not think that for one minute you should take responsibility for this. You were a child.”

“Oh, la! Lizzy, I think that being Mrs Darcy had taken away some of your cynicism – you are becoming rather like Jane in seeing the good in everyone.”

“I simply do not want you to feel remorse over this.”

“I feel remorse that dear Wickham, God rest his soul, would have rather signed up for war than spend another day in my household.”

“That cannot be true.”

“You have always been adored by every man you meet – clever and handsome Elizabeth Bennet. I never had such a luxury, I have always been pointless Lydia, the youngest Bennet who gets drunk on wine and makes every laugh at parties. When I saw how Wickham looked at you, I wanted him for myself. I knew he could never marry any one of us, of course, so I decided to force his hand. Mrs Forster knew what my plan was, she told Wickham that he would have to take me away to Gretna to wed and so we set off that night. I was so scared but thinking about the look on all of your faces when I returned to Longbourn as Mrs George Wickham soon assuaged any fears that I might have had.”

Lydia poured them both a cup of tea from the stand at the corner of the room and returned to the sofa, the cups clattering in their saucers.

“So, my plan was working, however, Wickham decided halfway to Scotland that he wasn’t sure about this, that surely some negotiation could be made as no severe improprieties had occurred. He knew that we had nothing, could offer nothing and you know that for George, after growing up here in the splendour of Pemberley, he would never settle for that. We went to London and he contacted a lady of his acquaintance called Mrs Younge who, as you know…”

“Georgiana’s companion! That’s how Darcy found you.”

“Yes,” Lydia confirmed. “They were trying to figure out a way of getting me home with no mention of any scandal, but by this point it was already too late and half of London already knew that I was living, unmarried, with George Wickham and there was nothing that could be done.”

Lydia glanced at the room around her, and then at her sister who was now nearly thirty-four years of age and getting more beautiful each time she saw her. The younger was always jealous of Lizzy, who commandeered the attention of their father and had a boundless energy that could be rarely matched. Lydia truly believed that her sister was fearless and when she made the decision to make George Wickham her own, she truly believed that it was something that Lizzy might have done if she had her own gumption and disregard for society’s rules.

“What happened at the wedding?”

“Darcy stood up with Wickham, as you know, and Aunt and Uncle Gardiner were there. Even though he didn’t want to marry me, and by this point I didn’t want to marry him either, we were too embroiled in the situation to escape it and we had to go ahead.” Lydia looked up at her sister, “he married me to save my reputation and to save yours. For all the damage that Wickham tried to inflict on Darcy by attempting to elope with Georgiana, he truly saw him as his brother. He married me because he knew that Darcy was in love with you and any taint on our family reputation would have severely hindered his being able to make a proposal of marriage, or of you being accepted in Derbyshire society.”

Elizabeth took a sip of her tea, it was cold. It was taking her a moment to process this new information about Wickham; she wished that he could have decided on what type of character he had wanted to be. “Anyway, after we moved to Newcastle it was different. I wasn’t clever enough, or funny enough, or witty enough and he was bored of me very quickly. I tried to distract myself with balls and dances and, you will not believe this Lizzy, practising my needlework.”

“Practicing your needlework? My my, Lydia, you must have needed the distraction.”

“I did,” she said softly. “He had a mean temper and he lost at the card tables a lot. When I wrote to you and Jane asking for money, it was mainly to buy food rather than new gowns or anything of merit. We had very little. I know that Darcy gave him a fortune to wed me, at least eight thousand pounds, but it was all gone within the year with nothing to show for it. When they told me that he wasn’t coming back, I… I was glad that he was dead. I was sorry that he was gone, but I was glad that I was free from him.”

Elizabeth pulled her sister into a firm embrace and the Bennet sisters sat there for moment, listening to the soft birdsong traveling across the lake. Outside the smell of magnolia drifted in and Lydia hugged her sister even tighter, feeling as if a massive weight had finally been lifted from her shoulders,

“Look how things turned out,” Elizabeth said brightly.

“Yes, I never knew what love would feel like when it finally hit me. I thought it would be like in books – all immediate and sparkling – but this love is so very tangible, so very safe. Friendship, I think, is always a very firm foundation on which to build a marriage and I am so very fortunate to have been given a second chance.”

“Well it is clear to me that William loves you a great deal”

“He does,” Lydia grinned. “And Georgie too… and hopefully this next babe will give him a legitimate heir.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” she nodded.

 “What fantastic news,” Elizabeth hugged her sister again and they sat silently for a moment.

“The thing that troubles me though, Lizzy, is this,” Lydia said with a mischievous grin. “If I had known that Darcy had already laid his heart at your door, I could have seduced him instead and of all this I could have been mistress!”

Elizabeth laughed at her sister, who was now dancing about in the grandeur of the saloon, admiring herself in the massive full-length mirror that dominated one wall. She was happy to see that her sister was now settled and saddened that she had not known the full extent of Lydia’s suffering at the hands of Wickham. Even though he had been gone for nearly nine years now, George Wickham would always cast a shadow over Pemberley, because even if his marriage to her sister was protect her own reputation, she was, unlike Lydia, convinced that he would not have been acting truly altruistically.

When Darcy returned to the room, stinking of cigars and slightly merry, she held him close in a way that she usually only did when they were alone. He looked at her curiously, unsure of what was happening or if he was in trouble for something that he wasn’t aware of, looking up at him with eyes the colour of cocoa beans, she held his hand in hers and firmly kissed it before leading him through to the dining room where supper was being served.


	33. Lizzy

Lizzy had taken her well-worn route up the Lantern, needing to feel the cool morning air in her nostrils and shake the cobwebs out of her head. It was always good to get up onto the moorland before the fell runners and the mountain bikers and the dog walkers, just so she could feel completely alone. After only five minutes of walking up Lime Avenue, the grand parade of lime trees that lined the old south drive, she could no longer hear the gardening team trimming the hedges, couldn’t see anyone else on the dewy grass paths that led up and out of the estate. She plodded on up the small incline and through the gate that led into Knightslow, the medieval wood with its ancient arcing trees that hid secrets and spectres, and then out into the wide expanse of the parkland which lay before her, vast and indifferent.

There was no-one else this far into the park so early on a Sunday morning, the formal gardens of Pemberley were always so full of people that she found she basked in the isolation of the empty hills. She was halfway up her final ascent when the heavens opened, and the rain began to pour. Running the last stretch of the way, she heaved herself over the stile, and found relative shelter under the canopy of oaks and sycamores in Lantern Wood. Lizzy was planning on clearing her head, but all she could hear when she walked was the sound of Benn’s voice, repeating the conversation of the night before.

 “You know if you had told me this time last year that I would be sitting on top of a stately home with Lady Elizabeth Darcy, then I wouldn’t have believed a word of it.” He declared, as they sat on a scratchy blanket on top of the Wyatt Tower, drinking coffee from mugs. He was due to leave first thing in the morning and she realised that she was going to miss more than his gentle teasing and choice of ready-made desserts.

“Well, obviously!” she laughed. “Last year you were in Morocco filming ‘Fatal Danger’ with Bethany Woodhouse and definitely not thinking about being stuck on a roof with a mad woman.”

She was right; she was mad – but mad in the way like unrestrained laughter in a fit of happiness is mad. Mad in the way that whirling around too quickly as a child is mad; she had set his whole world spinning and turning like a bout of vertigo. She made him feel irrational and foolish; made him feel like he might possibly be in love with a woman he had known for less than four months. It was a brilliant, exhilarating insanity. He glanced up at her, momentarily catching her eye for the merest hint of second; she looked away quickly and he was certain he heard her breath catch in her throat.

“Don’t be daft, your hair isn’t mad…can’t say the same for you though,” he looked over at her and she hit him playfully, “you’re like a poor man’s Mrs Rochester.”

 “How very rude! Don’t start pretending that you read books now,” Lizzy moved backwards, placing her back against the wall and sitting closer to him than she thought she should.

“I read books!” He snorted, “usually only books of films they’ve sent me scripts for, but…” He saw her visibly rise and was determined to thwart it, “…there is a method to my madness before you start protesting.”

“Go on then,” she sighed with good humour, “you’ll tell me anything!”

“I’m actually being serious for once!” He nodded with great sincerity as if to highlight to her that he did actually prepare for his many and varied roles. “See I usually get sent a script; if it’s Darcy or Heathcliff and I fancy it, then I read the script first because that’s the story they want to tell; not the book.” She could see from his face that he was being serious about it, that the Fitzwilliam Darcy in Casey Muir’s script might be nothing like the man in the novel, was nothing really like the man who lived. “If I want to know more, I do my research – read the book, quiz the descendants…” He shot her that wry smile she had come to know so well.

Lizzy was fairly convinced that there were butterflies in her stomach flapping and flitting all over the place. She hadn’t felt like this before, hadn’t known that the tentative friendship had been burning inside her into something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, although she did think back to that kiss in the kitchen where his hands had gripped firmly onto her thighs, then moved expertly over her shoulders, his fingers in her hair pulling her towards him, and she had felt a familiar, but unwelcome glow inside her. It was there again now, a little spark, a tiny smoulder, something that could set the whole world ablaze if she let it. She took a deep gulp of coffee and ate a profiterole to try and convince herself that she was simply hungry, and the butterflies were lactose-intolerant.

“I used to come up here when I was younger,” she began, swallowing the profiterole in a very unladylike manner. “My grandad had this amazing telescope which was a million years old and we always thought we could get it focused and see galaxies, but we never did and ended up dragging it back downstairs. I think it was broken, but he never believed me.”

“Your grandad sounds cool,” he pierced the soft, chocolate covered pastry with a fork, passing it over to her. She took it from him with a small smile.

“He could be a lot of fun, I miss him a lot on nights like this.”

Benn saw a little wave of sadness wash over her, then it was gone, and the brightness returned, the crest of sunshine on the horizon.

 “Now let me get this right, your grandad was Winston… and, Harriet told me, your great-grandma was Millicent Darcy? That’s amazing – I remember girls at uni wearing badges with her face on.”

There was even talk of a statue of her being erected in Parliament Square, he had never made the connection to the Pemberley Darcys before but imagined that if a statue was ever revealed some junior editor would headline it: “Women’s Votes for Mr Darcy” alongside a picture of Colin Firth, obviously.

“Yes, I had one of those badges,” she took a mouthful of coffee. “Winston was born the year before women got the votes and out of wedlock too”.

“Scandalous!” He said with mock indignant rage, munching a profiterole.

“It was at the time!” She grinned.  “She made the best cheese pie too; there is a recipe for it in one of the cookbooks in the bookshop.  Maybe I could make it for you, perhaps… I mean, as long as you’re not allergic to cheese, that is...” She bit into another profiterole, the contents escaping to her lower lip.

“I’m not allergic to cheese!” He leaned over and wiped the cream off with the smooth firmness of his thumb.  “I love cheese…”  It was a slow, intimate act, and he felt a little shiver run through him, certain she felt it too. “Am I on a pie-based promise now, Lady Darcy?”

“Maybe…” Lizzy looked up at him, fully aware of the goosebumps that had appeared on her arm.

“I’d like that.”

“You would?”

“Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

She was silent for moment, “because you’re _you_.”

 “And you’re _you_ ,” he emphasised, “which is exactly the reason why I would want to.”

She shyly dipped her head, before looking up at him from underneath her curls. He wasn’t sure if she was being purposely self-effacing or if she was genuinely unaware of how lovely she was. Benn had found himself thinking about that smile when he was alone, wondering what shape the curve of her mouth would take if he took her to his favourite places; watched her run her fingertips over the bookshelves at Shakespeare and Co in Paris, took her swimming in the Pacific Ocean under the shadow of the Santa Monica boardwalk, held her hand and walk through the streets of London.  Then his mind had wandered; how would it feel to kiss her again, would it be the same, or would it be deeper, harder, softer.

Even after Madeleine had filed for divorce – their assets assessed and split by lawyers and accountants – he had still held a little candle of hope inside his heart for her, that eventually she would come back to him and that everything would be the same.

When they had first met, she had been engaged to a friend of a friend, and it had been awkward to begin with as the attraction crackled between them in rehearsals. It was instant, all-consuming and when he thought back now to things that they had done to be together in those first few illicit months, to the battles he had fought on their behalf when everyone stood against them, he realised that he always knew that it had only ever been a matter of time before they self-destructed, and they had but not in the big, dramatic way he had foreseen.

Love, he found, didn’t always have to explode to end, sometimes it fades away slowly as we become complacent and accepting of its presence and now the little candle was a waning ember and over the last few weeks he had begun to contemplate a future without her and the very real reality that maybe this new life he was creating for himself could involve the woman sitting next to him right now on top of the rooftop in Derbyshire.

The anticipation fizzed like static in the air; it was catching his breath and he found that it was making it hard for him to do anything except look at her like a lolloping puppy. I bet she thinks I’m a bumbling idiot, he thought. Hesitantly he reached over but then decided against it, placing his hand back on the rug.  

 “Your eyes are amazing,” he half-whispered, not sure if he wanted her to hear, wondering if he would ever be able to accurately describe the way traces of moonlight were flecked across their silvery warmth.  

She looked up at him quickly, if she had questioned the electric twitches surging through her veins before then she was left with absolutely no doubt now.

“My pondwater eyes?” She sounded surprised at the compliment, questioning it as if it was something unheard of.  

“They’re like mercury…” he looked up at her, taking her by surprise.

“Oh, be quiet, you silly sod.” It was almost as if she thought he was teasing her, joking along, playing a game.

“I have never met anyone like you in my entire life,” he said, knowing how corny the words sounded, how she would believe they were from a badly written script. Instead she looked at him curiously, her head tilted to one side, studying him again, as if she was trying to figure him out.

“There is probably a very good reason why you have never met anyone like me.”

“Lizzy,” he confided.  “I think I’m in great danger here…”

She couldn’t take her eyes off him, looking at the soft pout of his lip, the curve of his jawline, and in a soft, unsure voice she finally asked, “…in great danger of what?”

He shyly moved towards her, hesitant and cautious, she could feel the heat of his breath against her face. She was breathing in the smell of expensive cologne mixing with his own scent. His stubble grazed her top lip as she felt him press his lips gently against hers and she reciprocated with a gentle tilt of the head.

It wasn’t the same as before, and as she allowed herself to be pulled into this kiss which was gentle but passionate, soft but forceful, as she felt the gentle pulse deep within her, she knew that this was very dangerous indeed.

“I’m sorry,” she stopped it as soon as it started; getting up quickly and rising to her feet, she knew that she had to put as much space between them as she could, “I can’t do this.”

Benn snapped out of the daydream of them that he had already been fantasising about in his head. He didn’t know where this sudden change of character had appeared from, and then he realised. He watched her struggling to fasten the lace on her shoe, her fingers shaking with the slightest of tremors.

“What? What have I done wrong?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong…”

“I wasn’t going to ask this…”

“Ask what?”

“Matthew said that you -” he hesitated, doubt splaying across his face like a lightning bolt across a thunderous sky, and then quieter as he reluctantly continued, his voice fading to barely a whisper, “…he said that you never let anyone in.”

“ _Matthew_?”  Her voice raised ever so slightly, but there was also a modicum of surprise as if she was unsure why the name was even being mentioned to in relation to this situation “This has nothing to do with Matthew…”

She turned back to fastening her shoe, gathering together the cups and putting her things in her bag. He didn’t want to end the night like this; this was not how he imagined it turning out when they had walked up the spiral staircase to the leaded roof, not what he expected would happen as he had placed his hand gently on her waist and pointed out the stars. It was wrong; all so very wrong and he had no idea at all what to say, but he knew he had to say something.

“Are you still in love with him?”

The tone was accusatory, but she could see from the self-reproach evident on his face that he hadn’t meant to say it like that. She found that the glare she shot him was misdirected and her gaze instantly softened.

“You have no right to ask me that,” she was quietly defiant, saddened somehow that he thought that.  She fell silent, the words hung in the air like washing left on the line on a rainy afternoon.

He processed the words, rose to his feet before looking out at the gardens below. Benn Williams was not known for spontaneous romantic gestures, he wasn’t one of the heroes from the films he starred in. Everything was thought through and calculated and debated in his head, but this had knocked him for six. He couldn’t ignore these feelings he had, not when they were raging ferociously inside him. He felt it in the goosebumps on her skin and the warmth of her mouth, but he couldn’t force it, didn’t want to push her. There had been so many times in his life when he had held back and never done what he wanted, when he had felt that he couldn’t. But right now, in this instance of time, with the hope of all they could be slipping through his fingers, he knew that he had to say something.

“What are you scared of?” he said finally.

There was a moment, where he knew that time stood still. He was completely aware of the smell of the magnolia tree, the soft hooting of owls in the distance, the rustle of the long grass in the parkland, the brightness of the moonlight hitting her face, his own heartbeat thudding in his chest.  She spoke; it was as if this was a well-rehearsed scene that she was finally performing in front of an audience.  

 “Why do I have to be scared of anything…”

“I _know_ you feel it too.”

Her eyes darted to him quickly, she had tried to conceal how she felt about him, but she found that it fell out of her too easily. This was like one of those perfect scenes from a film where her heart thumped, and her breathing felt funny, it felt like an out of body experience as if it couldn’t quite be happening to her.

But it was.

Benn Williams, world famous actor, was standing before her with his pleading eyes and his sad face, but Lizzy knew that this wasn’t real and when the filming was over she would be the one left with tears and heartbreak, and he would return to his real life. One that didn’t include the crazy woman with the mad hair, regardless of the feelings that he was currently professing.

“I don’t think it’s wise to risk starting fires.”                                                                          

He hesitated, “not even for someone who would cherish the warmth?”

“Not even for that,” she whispered. “Sometimes we are too cowardly, sometimes we fear the burn too much.”

She looked unsure, he thought, and he pushed onward, “but what about the flame, this could be a furious fire.”

“Or it could burn out quickly and all we would be left with is ashes,” she questioned, “what then? This isn’t real, Benn.”

He walked over to her, tried to touch her shoulder, but she shrugged him away. His voice took on a hard, pleading tone. “How can this not feel real to you?”

She stood there in the moonlight, her arms folded in an arrogant armour across her chest and he felt that there was something cold about her now. He knew she had closed herself off, locked some part of herself away.

“It’s not love, Benn.” She said this with a dismissive tone, more as if she was trying to convince herself than him. “It’s acting, you said it yourself.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, ” she smiled sadly.

He knew that she didn’t mean it. It was evident in the way her voice cracked at the end of the sentence, the fracture spreading up into the words causing splinters to drop from her mouth.

“You can’t always get what you want.”

The sentence fell like shards on the floor between them, shattering into silence. Neither moved and she felt as if she was on raft quietly drifting out towards the ocean, leaving him standing on the shore.  

“I want you.”

He reached out for her hand. She grasped it tightly. He noticed that she looked down at their fingers entwined together in the darkness, and he felt the faintest grip back in response, as if she was checking to see if it was real.

“We can be friends.”

“I don’t think I can be your friend,” he said.

“That’s up to you,” she said sadly, pulling her hand away.

She turned and was already disappearing down the spiral staircase, and he realised that it was the end of the conversation. He couldn’t understand what was happening, because surely, she must know that this had changed everything for him and he couldn’t simply revert to friendship. He waited there for what seemed to be an eternity, not wanting to move, not understanding what had happened over the last few minutes, before hearing the click of her door and walked down the stairs to show himself out, not wanting to look her in the face.

 

Lizzy sat perched on the edge of the hill, looking at the descent to the house framed by rows of trees on each side. It was three storeys high, made from solid lumps of stone and ancient wood, and she found its presence comforting, unchanging. The grounds around Pemberley had changed so much since the HHS had taken over, but the Lantern was still the same as it had been when she was younger, the well-worn path still rocky, the building itself still strong. In the distance she could see the production trucks disappearing with a rumble down the driveway.

It had never occurred to Lizzy, as she grew up, that she would still be living at Pemberley and single at this point in her life, but as she trudged down the hill and back towards the house her mind wandered; and it had wandered to Benn Williams and the touch of his hand on her face, and the way her heart had flipped over and over, and how hard it had been to walk away from him last night, when all she had wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and kiss him over and over on the top of the roof. It could have been the fairy-tale, but she realised that she had crossed out the ending; there would not be a happily ever after in this story. That was the thing about being a Darcy that no-one ever understood, she thought, you simply couldn’t do what you wanted. There were responsibilities and things to think about. For Lizzy it felt as if the vast path of destiny had conspired to keep her at Pemberley; her roots firmly entrenched in the dark soil, her branches tangled and lashed, her leaves refusing to unfurl.


	34. Mabel - 1832

Thanks to years of practice, Mabel Anne Darcy was accomplished in a great deal of things deemed suitable for a girl of her rank and age. Her singing was delectable, her drawing and painting refined; she could play both the pianoforte and the harp, spoke French and Italian to a high degree of fluency, but she could never quite perfect needlework or anything to do with hats. It was more lack of interest, rather than lack of skill. Ribbons were a curse, and she was happy to leave trimming hats to her plump, jovial Bingley cousins, who were frequent visitors to the house in Derbyshire; each visit engineered by Aunt Jane to encourage her in some of the more delicate pursuits. It was on these days that Mabel loved to hide away in the hidden spot under the grand staircase with a pile of books – the special kidskin bound tomes of Shakespeare that had come from her grandfather’s library at Longbourn, or the smooth leather hardbacks filled with history and science, sometimes even the sensually gothic novels of Ann Radcliffe that she enjoyed reading in secret during the dark, deep hours of the night.

The house was busy with people – it was the week of preparation before Lady Anne’s Ball, and everywhere there was hustle and bustle and noise.  Her father had already ridden out early this morning; pretending that he had urgent business to attend to, when really, he was hiding up in the woods until the cacophony had abated, whilst her brothers were all away at school leaving Mabel to entertain herself for the most part. Fitzwilliam had an easy-going nature and reminded her of their mother. He delighted in anything fun, and loved balls, dancing and the company of ladies. He was in his last year at Cambridge, although everyone knew that his real education would come from Papa as he learned to run the Darcy estates in their entirety once his formal education was completed. Francis had been sent to Eton for Michaelmas Half and then returned at least six inches taller than he went; he had always been serious, but school had made him more so, and he stomped around the house with a frown on his face – only deigning to speak to her through gritted teeth, as though her very presence grieved him a great deal. She was grateful when the carriage carried him back from whence he came, and she did not have to avoid his foul moods and horrendous temper. 

James had gone to sea as soon as he was old enough and sent her letters from all four corners of the world. She was always thrilled by each missive that she received from him and devoured them immediately, absorbing the tales of faraway lands, lost cities, new cultures and strange foods. He had left Oxford after only a year of study, and her father had purchased him a commission in the Navy, where he was under the command of a Captain Jenkins from Lyme Regis. James was currently in the East Indies; she had received a sparkling hair clip dotted with flowers made from tiny rubies for her last birthday, wrapped up in a thin muslin cloth that smelled deeply of exotic spices and adventure. Mabel had never seen the sea, but she imagined how large and vast it must be, thinking about her beloved brother charging across incalculable expanses of ocean in a wooden boat.

She ran her finger up and down the lines of regimented books in the library, each ordered by size and then alphabetically, each book rebound to her father’s exacting standards and each manuscript stamped with a tiny golden bull on the spine before it was admitted entry. She picked up a thin, tightly bound novel and flicked through its pages quickly before tucking it into her pocket; with the red leather-bound book carefully stowed away, Mabel danced up the grand staircase, lightly stepping on each of the wide, shallow steps, twirling past the aspidistra that dangled over the edge of the bannisters, saluting General George and trying to avoid becoming a nuisance to the hordes of servants that were scuttling about the corridors and staircases.

At last she stowed away in her hideaway at the far end of the long gallery, where she could see the smoky haze of Manchester in the distance – the great Stratton-Darcy cotton mills of Ancoats pumping soot and steam into the atmosphere. Taking out the half-inch wide book, she didn’t have to read too far into it to realise that this story was something very close to home. It had begun with the names – Elizabeth, Jane, Kitty – common names, aye, but Bennet? And then the places – Meryton, Rosings, Pemberley… Mabel closed the book quickly, her hands holding the red bound novel tightly shut. She flicked back through the smooth paper pages to the front of the novel, then closed it again, then opened it again. She had been enjoying the story very much, and even though she was almost certain that she knew how the narrative would end, she wanted to see how the author arrived at the conclusion. At the end of the first volume she raced back down to the library, eager to complete the remaining two.  

Elizabeth Darcy was getting ready for dinner when there was a loud knock and her door opened. Mabel. Even though there were definite hints of herself in her daughter – the impertinence, the obstinance and the sharp remarks – she was, for the most part, the epitome of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the form of a sixteen-year-old girl and was usually a fearsome thing to behold; but tonight, she was softer, understanding, looking at her mother with an almost dreamy expression. She threw herself onto the bed, causing the wood to creak and Ellen to exit the room with undue haste and a knowing look to her mistress. Elizabeth remained perched at her dresser, continuing her toilette and eyeing the figure lying on the bed.

“Mother,” came the sigh. “I need to question you about a novel I came across today in the library.”  She removed the book from the pocket of her dress, before placing it on the embroidered coverlet. Elizabeth picked the leather-bound volume up and eyed the spine, she inadvertently raised an eyebrow and an amused smile crossed her lips.

“Why are you smiling, Mother?” Mabel folded her arms and looked at her mother questioningly, “this book is all about you… and Papa… and our Aunt and Uncle Bingley…” Her voice dropped to a whisper as if she had discovered a great secret.  

She had read all about how her father had tried to stop the marriage of her favourite Aunt, how he had arranged the marriage of her third favourite Aunt, and how he had loved her mother most ardently, so much so that he proposed twice. Elizabeth flicked through the pages of the book, eyeing swiftly reading a passage and looking amused as she did so.

“Pray, child,” she soothed. “If you have read all of this novel,” her eyes questioning her, “tell me, which is your favourite part?”

“I like all of the parts, Mama.” She picked up the book and flicked through the pages, pulling at her hair, before finding the page she was looking for. “I think Elizabeth Bennet is the most wonderful character in all of English literature.”

“I find that I must agree with you on this point,” Elizabeth said as she finished pinning her hair. “I think my favourite part is when she tells Mr Darcy that he is the last man on earth that she could ever possibly marry.”

Mabel rolled her eyes and deep sighed again, “ever be _prevailed_ upon to marry, Mama.” She grabbed the book and turned the pages vigorously until she reached the correct chapter. “Look, you are quoting it incorrectly.”

“Oh yes,” she smiled. “How very foolish of me.”

The dinner tonight was particularly important as her father planned to charm the owners of the neighbouring estates, he was determined to see the building of a railway line across the edge of the Darcy lands and wanted their consent for it to cross theirs too. Elizabeth was determined to charm and flatter the gentlemen and impress their wives with her vast array of decadent jewels. Mabel studied her mother, watched as she slid the sapphires onto her to fingers, as she clasped the diamond bracelet around her wrist, as she placed the glinting emerald clip into her hair.

“Mama,” the younger woman prodded. “Are you the Miss Bennet of this story?”

Elizabeth eyed her daughter carefully, “what is your own opinion of this? Do you think that I am the Miss Bennet of this story?”

“Aye,” she nodded, “I do. There are far too many similarities for it to be purely coincidental, and she talks like you do. She has your same… manner.”

“My same impertinent manner.”

Mabel blushed slightly, her cheeks reddening. She was still so young in so many ways, Elizabeth thought, and so like her parents in both the good ways and the bad. She didn’t suffer from the restrictive shyness which had been a weakness in Darcy’s own character, and she was much less likely to judge other’s on first impressions, always taking everything and everyone at face value; she was a wonderfully warm, loving girl whose personality was painted in vivid colours, contrasting with those of her brothers; but her mother knew, that from the curl of her hair to the pout of her lip to the jut of her chin, she was a Darcy through and through.

“Well then, that is settled; I am firmly of the belief that once any of the Darcys – be it you, your father or any one of your brothers has decided upon an opinion then there is naught I can do to persuade you otherwise,” she placed a gloved hand on her daughter’s cheek.  

“Although, if one were the Miss Bennet of the story, then it may be a very foolish thing indeed to have the story of one’s own courtship – hindered through pride and conceit – lying about for their offspring to read, do you not agree, Mabel?”

Elizabeth rose to her feet, smoothing the soft yellow satin of her gown, “That is, if I _were_ the Miss Bennet of your story.”

She eyed her daughter mischievously before walking out into the Bright Gallery, the fashionably red walls illuminated by the oil lit chandeliers at each corner, the polished painted faces of their loved ones lining the corridor, the artefacts that her father had brought back from the Holy Land carefully displayed in glass cabinets that sparkled in the light.  Mabel smiled softly to herself, before holding the book close to her heart and falling back on the bed in her mother’s chambers, fully believing herself to have been let into the confidence of a great secret.

The lights were low after supper when the distant sound of the piano being played less than adequately by her mother, followed by the sound of her father singing and then laughter, so much laughter.  She softly stepped down the staircase, peeping into the drawing room, where her mother was sitting at the pianoforte; her father stood to one side turning the page as she fudged and slurred through the hard passages of the work, and he looked at her adoringly, a sparkle in his eyes as she smiled and laughed at his off-key singing and forgetting of the words. She slipped along past the edge of the drawing room, and through into the library; she placed the book back in its spot on the shelf, ensuring that it was perfectly aligned, and returned to the drawing room, where her mother stopped playing and called her over with a warm smile, and her father beckoned her towards him, pulling her into the firmest of embraces.

As she stood with the hero and heroine of her story, the daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet realised that, along with her brothers, she was the epilogue to a beautiful tale – one that was still being written.


	35. *footnote

“Where are we going?” She whispered as she followed him into the darkness.

Taking her hand in his gently he whispered, “stop being impatient.”

“I’m not being impatient, I’m cold!”

The tall, silver-haired man in the dark blue coat turned towards the honey blonde lady and took her hand, gently pulling her towards him.

“Well, we’re here now,” he murmured. “Let me warm you up.”

He pulled her in for a kiss, softly at first and then firmer, with more potency. She let him wrap his arms around her, feeling the same tingles from when he had first kissed her that night on the rooftop of the Wyatt tower, when the stars had burned in the sky and they had given in to their summer-long flirtation. Joyce knew that she might get burned by Hugh this time, but at least she would have tried, at least she would have known that what she felt years ago was justified.

“Are you warmer now?” He pushed her fringe away from her face so that he could see her blue eyes in the moonlight. 

“Yes,” she smiled up at him. For the first time in a long time, Joyce felt like she was home, as if she had found her missing jigsaw piece. She placed her hand on his cheek, running her thumb along his cheekbone. “You look the same.”

A small smile caused his cheeks to dimple and she was taken immediately back to the hot July afternoon when, hot and sweating, he had recklessly dived into the pond and then pulled her in after him, her shoes sliding down the dry earth of the embankment. She had fallen into the water with a splash, tumbling, frowning, emerging gasping for breath, and he had enfolded her in the warm dampness of his arms, before kissing her slowly and passionately in the cool water.

“Shall we go inside so you can perhaps see me without this flattering glow?”

They were standing outside of a lone cottage on the furthest reaches of the estate, below them the city of Manchester twinkled in the distance. Inside Paddock Cottage, the fire was already burning, the comforting smell of pine alight infused the room and the humble stone interior was gently lit with candles.

“I should tell you off severely for leaving candles burning unattended, you are at serious risk of damaging the property of the Historical House Society.”

He looked at her earnestly, looking like the boy she had admired so much, “do you like it?”

Joyce felt the prick of happy tears behind her eyes, but she pushed them back to smile at him with her whole face.

“You brought me to the cottage.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Do you remember?”

“I do,” she in quietened, hushed tones. “I thought you had forgotten.”

He took a tentative step towards her, “I never forgot.”

“Me neither.”

“When I came back from Cambridge, you were gone. I thought I had done something wrong, that you despised me after what we did…” he looked down and started to fidget with his signet ring.

“No,” she whispered. “I was scared.”

“Scared?”

“You were the heir to Pemberley. You needed to be with someone not like me, and I was scared that the longer we spent together the harder it would be.”

Back then she knew that it could never have worked – there were bigger expectations of him, the heir to Pemberley needed to marry a society heiress with a private school education and a trust fund or a title. She had none of those and had left the house at the end of the season, without explanation and without regret.

He smiled sadly, “I think I would have done a better job of matrimony if I had married someone like you.”

“You know what I mean, Hugh,” she murmured. “You had to marry the right type of woman.”

“I did,” he said firmly. “Once anyway.”

There was a sadness in his voice that he could not disguise. He didn’t know whether his marriage to Patricia would have lasted, but Carol appeared to have woken up one morning and decided that she detested him. He had tried to make it work with her, tried so hard, but there is only so long you can fight for something that doesn’t want to be won.

“There is no shame is walking away from something that isn’t right.”

 “No,” he whispered, looking up at her, because right then in that moment, he knew. “It was because it was always you.”

He looked at her and she could not have failed to have understood his meaning. Overcome by a sudden rush of love, Joyce threw herself into Hugh’s arms, hugging him so tightly that she came to think that she would never be able to let him go for fear of being unable to feel this way again. Sometimes love can become lost, can become hidden, can be love forsaken; but love always has a way of seeping into our bones, finding its way back to us, seeking us out and pulling us back into its orbit. 

Hugh held her close to his chest, feeling the thump of her heart against his own, the tiny frailness of her that belied the wondrous strength within.  He kissed her until the candles flickered and extinguished one by one.


	36. Lizzy

It was a crisp October morning at the top of Cage Hill, the countryside below was turning from soft green to burnished orange, the change of the seasons cascading throughout the landscape. Harriet had been there since before six taking pictures of the hunting lodge for her college project. She loved the way that it stood on the skyline, sometimes looking gigantic, and other times miniscule, and she had walked around the edges of the park taking photographs from different angles trying to capture the grand majesty of the ancient building that had overshadowed the skyline in one form or another since Henry VIII was King. Walking past Mr Darcy’s horse chestnut tree, she noticed some conkers lying on the floor, snatching at them she peeled off the spiky shell to reveal the beautiful soft seed inside. Darcy conkers had always been the best ones, even better than the ones from the massive old horse chestnut tree in Lambton, which is where the cutting from this tree had come from. Harriet smoothed the conkers in her hand until they looked like polished gems, satisfied with their prettiness she began her descent towards Pemberley.

At the edge of the hill there was a large protruding rock which came up to her shoulder; when Harriet had been younger Lizzy had lifted her up to it and swung her down to the ground, it felt like flying as she had been spun round and round, the horizon fading to a blur before they fell about giggling on the hillside. It had also been in this spot on a cold, cruel December night that Fitzwilliam Darcy had died; his body being found the next morning by servants from the house who had been sent up the hill to look for him in the waist deep snow.

Harriet hoped that, wherever he was in spirit, he approved of her superior conkers, soaked in vinegar and baked in the oven, which had thrashed every other she had ever played against. She took a moment to look at the tributes written on the rock; quotes from Pride and Prejudice, drawings of the various actors who had played the role, a random flowery bra. Harriet thought it was crazy how people were so in love with the fictional version of him as depicted on stage, screen and in a copious number of books – most of which you could buy in the Pemberley gift shop. She pulled the two conkers from her pocket and gently placed them next to a postcard of the real Fitzwilliam; taking a moment to wish him a very happy birthday.

Harriet loitered at the north front gate, observing the dozens of people milling about like ants all over the house, before walking down the hill to the car park and knocking on the door of her dad’s trailer. There was no answer, so she stepped up to the large door of the Winnebago and popped her head in.

“Dad?”

She looked to the left and right, wandering through the trailer absentmindedly, but could not see him. Putting her bag down on the seats in front of her, she made a hot chocolate at the brew station behind her – location filming always had the best hot chocolate, and she had never known why, but drinking it in the relative luxury of her dad’s trailer had always been one of the highlights of being on location. This time had been much more fun than usual as she had got to do something; usually it was about as much fun as sitting in the offices of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones, playing with the photocopier and waiting for her mum to finish with a client. Her friends from school didn’t understand how visiting a film set could be so boring, but most summers her dad’s filming schedule dominated holiday plans; last year she ended up spending three whole weeks playing Minecraft with Oleander at some grotty little industrial estate in Kent rather than going to Florida like they had been promised.

Sitting down and taking her copy of ‘Persuasion’ out of her bag she slurped on her drink and read a few pages before, frustrated by Captain Wentworth and all of his stubborn inaction, she decided to text her dad to see where he was. He was usually on set by now, especially on days like this when his full control freak mode set in and everybody walked on eggshells until he was happy. Somewhere she could hear his distinctive text tone – his own voice at his Oscar acceptance speech – sounding somewhere in the trailer. She decided to ring; the theme music from Ubiquitous sounded out loudly, emanating from the bathroom, the deep bass vibrating against the wall and the pitchy violins sounding sharp and shrill.

“Dad, are you on the loo?”

There was a loud shuffle as something fell against the interior wall of the Winnebago.

“Harriet, can I meet you up at the house in about ten minutes?” He sounded strange and she felt that she must question it.

“Are you alright in there?” she pushed, “is this like when we went to Mexico and you were wee-pooing for three days?”

There was a noise that she thought was someone stifling a laugh; there was someone here.

“No, H, it’s okay… I’ll see you up there, okay?”

The forced joviality in his voice was an obvious sign that he was trying to get rid of her now. There was definitely someone else here. She quickly scouted around the room looking for clues, but there was nothing obvious, which meant that he was getting much cleverer at hiding his various infidelities. Harriet wasn’t one to judge her father, but she wished that he tried a little bit. It made sense now that he had been away on location since June, and that neither Cara or the boys would answer her FaceTime calls, she had probably already caught him and was busy working out her next move, not needing the hassle of his other random child to confuse things.

“Okay, I’ll meet you at the shop. You can buy me some fudge.”

“Yeah, course!” She was convinced his voice had moved up several octaves.  “See you in a bit!”

Harriet grabbed her bag, stomped over to the door, opened it and then closed it again before sitting on the sofa, just hidden from the view of the bathroom. It only took a minute or two before her father emerged, dishevelled and post-coital, followed by Tamsin McLeod, who was smiling until she saw the frowning face of Harriet Darcy in the corner of the room.

“Are you actually kidding me, Dad?”

“Harriet, I... Uhm... you said you were… uhm,” his eyes darted from Harriet to Tamsin. “I can explain this, please don’t tell Cara… or your mother…”

“You know he’s married, right?” she addressed Tamsin directly, the tiny blonde looking incredibly young without her professional make-up. “He’s like twenty years older than you, you could do much better… what happened to Rowan? He’s gorgeous! Please don’t tell me you sacked off Rowan Morris for my dad, because you would need your head checking if you have. Look at him, he’s dead old!” 

She pointed at her dad, seeing a man who was nearly forty and, in her eyes, super ancient. Tamsin didn’t see what Harriet saw, instead she saw a deeply attractive man in his late thirties who was in a bad marriage, and she knew that she could put all of his broken pieces back together, even if that meant moving to LA and living in his big house for a while, and whilst she was there she was certain she would be able to pick up some work, surely that would be much easier if she was sleeping with Matthew Wickham, even if he was fifteen years older than her. The role of Lydia should prove to be her breakout one, finally she would get away from playing studious nerds and could finally aim for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl roles that had so far eluded her. 

Tamsin, her blonde hair rumpled and her eyes like saucers, looked from Harriet to Matthew, then grabbed her shoes and bag, which she had hidden in a cupboard, before quietly exiting the trailer. Harriet stood looking at the father with her hand on her hips.

“You look exactly like your mother when you do that.”

“I expected better of you – she’s like twelve!”

“She’s twenty-three, Harry, I think you’re being slightly judgmental.”

“Slightly judgmental? Are you not slightly married?”

He stood there, limp, saying nothing.

“And what about Mum?”

Matthew sighed, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand adult relationships. They’re more complicated than changing your Facebook status, you know.”

Harriet rolled her eyes at her dad, “that’s not patronising at all, is it?” She picked up her bag and began to walk towards the door of the trailer. “Nobody uses Facebook anymore.”

“Don’t come in here and speak to me like that,” he protested. “Things haven’t been great with Cara and me for ages now, she barely tolerates me being there…and your mother…well…”

“Speak to my Mum then, and for the love of god, get divorced!” She sighed, “you need to grow up.”

Harriet slammed out of the trailer and Matthew slumped down on the hard leather seats of the Winnebago. He should feel remorse, but he didn’t. He liked the way Tamsin looked at him as if he was the greatest thing since sliced bread; how she had flirted and flattered his ego, pandering to the underlying arrogance that came with success that the other woman in his life – Lizzy, Cara and now Harriet – refused to do. Harriet didn’t understand adult relationships, didn’t understand the hard work that it took to align your life with someone else’s, the dreary monotony of monogamy. He had married too young, too fast, too foolishly and these little trysts were his way of rewarding himself for not having a permanent girlfriend on the East Coast like so many of his peers. No, Harriet could sod off – she was the one who needed to grow up and realise that life wasn’t a romantic comedy where everyone lived happily ever after.


	37. Sophia - 1677

At the age of twenty-two, Cyril Darcy – the quiet, bookish and responsible heir to Pemberley – married famed society beauty Hortense Holland in a match that had been arranged by their parents. The benefit to both families was obvious – the Hollands’ grandchildren would be Darcys with all the deference that entailed, and the Darcys would benefit from Hortense’s substantial dowry. They were a very handsome couple; the buxom shapeliness of Lady Darcy beautifully juxtaposed against her husband’s well-built muscular physique, and whilst they both loved to dance, it was there that the geniality ended. Cyril found that he could not talk to his wife about literature, music or even basic cordialities regarding the running of their home, whilst Hortense was much more interested in partying and gambling with local ladies of their acquaintance and never arrived home earlier than midnight.

Sophia was home from Richmond for the hunt and breaking her fast with eggs and sausage, she had been up early that morning and already taken an illicit sojourn around the grounds before returning to the house. She loved Pemberley at this time of year, more than she realised until she came home. Home. What a strange notion; she had barely lived her during her childhood, but the house in Derbyshire cast a magical spell over her – it was and would always feel like home, the place where she was the happiest in the world. Even though Court and monarchs were an ever-present feature in her life and she, technically, lived in a Palace for most of the time, Sophia was still a little bit overwhelmed to think of King Henry VIII staying at her house. He had ridden out with this same Hunt over 150 years earlier and to think that she was such a small part of a much bigger history overawed her much more than it probably should. There was painting of the famous Tudor in the gallery at Richmond, as she would spend time looking at it, wondering if the man himself had been as foreboding as his reputation. That was the problem with men, and husbands – they had all the power and the wives merely had to do their bidding. Sophia knew that her father, George Darcy, the venerable Duke of Derbyshire was trying to find her a suitable match at court, but the pool of suitors was shallow, and she was not ready to give up what little freedom she currently had to shackle herself to a dullard from Dulwich, who was only interested in her fortune and not what she had to say.

“Is Hortense at home?” Sophia enquired, taking a bite of her sausage.

Cyril looked up from the papers he was reading at the table and, taking a swig of his coffee, shrugged, “when is my wife ever at home?”

Sophia looked at her older brother, dressed and proper as always, ready for another day of taking charge and making everything right. Since their father was always at court, it fell upon Cyril to look after the day to day running of the estate – he did it remarkably well.

“I must admit to you, brother, that your wife being away from this house is not such an unfortunate event,” she commented archly, looking at her brother to gauge his reaction. She suspected that Cyril was equally unhappy with his choice of bride as were the rest of the household, but she was waiting for his confirmation.

“Sister, this is not talk for the breakfast room,” he stated, folding his papers and getting up from the table. “It will not do, Sophia. It will not do.” He stomped out of the room, each footstep echoing on the oak floorboards.

She wished that he could find some semblance of happiness in his marriage, even if that meant becoming a widower at a very early age. It was wrong to have such thoughts, but since her arrival Hortense had managed to aggravate everyone in the house in Derbyshire, including her. Sophia thought herself to be easy to like – she knew when to laugh, what to laugh about, she knew enough about politics to impress any older men, enough about literature to start a conversation with most women, and she could converse easily in three languages – but it would have been easier to engage a lump rock in conversation that get a decent repartee from Lady Hortense Darcy.

Sophia took a bite of her sausage and slouched down in her chair. She was dining alone again this morning, the guests for the Hunt were not due to arrive until that afternoon and a banquet was being prepared to welcome the visitors from court. Her mother had taken to her chambers, complaining of feeling unwell the previous evening and had not yet ventured downstairs, whilst her father was travelling up from London with a party from court. Hopefully this would be an eventful week, Sophia thought, because she was damned bored with country life already and she had only been here two days.

*

“Daughter, wait!”

The Duchess’ voice was firm. Sophia sat back down next to her mother’s dressing table and saw a hint of fire behind those green eyes. Mary placed her hand on her daughters own, her fingers heavy with jewels.

“You must be careful,” she warned. “You of all people must know that this flirtation with James Fitzroy cannot go anywhere.”

 Sophia sighed, she wasn’t really in the mood for a lecture, she looked her mother in the eye directly, “Mama, I do not expect anything from Lord Fitzroy.”

“Firstly, he is not a Lord. He is the bastard son of the King and a whore, and you would do well to avoid him.” Mary was furious with her youngest daughter who had taken it upon herself to walk, unchaperoned, to the hunting lodge with Fitzroy, who had good manners and a terrible reputation. “You were seen today, acting most inappropriately, and if word reaches court then you may never find a good match.”

Sophia visibly blushed, she had not realised that she had been seen walking with James in the park, holding his hand, kissing his mouth, feeling the weight of him against her as she cried out no, whilst her whole body was saying yes. Sophia’s eyes flashed black and she flew into a rage at the unjustness of it all, words shooting out of her mouth like arrows.

“Do not think for one minute that you have a right to make judgments on my behaviour, Mama, when your life with Papa has been so far removed from the fairy-tale you always told us.” Sophia got up from the chair and walked across the room to the far side. “I do not need a husband. I do not understand this obsession with marriage, it vexes me greatly.”

Mary stood up and moved quickly towards her daughter, grabbing her by the arm and forcing her to face her directly. “You are Lady Sophia Darcy and your name itself carries a responsibility.” She was spitting the words out. “You do not have the freedom to do what you please, despite what you believe. It would do you well, child, to remember your place and your responsibilities before you give up your virtue to the first boy who demands it.” Mary looked directly into Sophia’s angry grey eyes. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Her daughter was breathing heavily, shocked by the display of anger exhibited by her mother. She nodded quickly, silently.

 “Then get out of my sight,” she stated firmly.

Mary despaired of her daughter, who at nearly seventeen years old had the intelligence and learning of someone twice her age; but she was also foolish and idealistic, her years of tutelage in the Royal Court giving her a deep-seated belief in her own ideals, regardless of convention or propriety. She hoped that being so thoroughly reprimanded would force her daughter to see the error of her ways.

Sophia walked out up into the parkland; being angry at her mother would not change anything, it would simply make the remaining time at Pemberley drag out longer than it would already. Out of the six Darcy children born in exile, only Cyril had survived to adulthood and Sophia wished sometimes than her sister Emma had not succumbed to the illness that killed her. At least with another girl her mother could have had another focus. That James Fitzroy, though. He was going to be trouble, she thought. Trouble indeed.


	38. Lizzy

Matthew Wickham had never understood the fascination with Pemberley. He loved it her because it was his home, but he never really felt the magic that everyone went on about. Even though the Wickhams were never treated as staff, he always felt second rate. At school he had been the boy who lived in the stables, hanging around the outside of the in-crowd, listening to Lizzy laugh and joke with a group of friends who he didn’t know. They had belonged to each other at Pemberley but here, where there were new people to know, she left him standing alone – it wasn’t intentional, but it hurt nonetheless. He chose a different college to go to, away from the little town where everyone knew everyone else, and he travelled out to Manchester even though it was an hour journey each way, because he wanted to be free from everyone’s pre-conceived ideas about him. He saw Lizzy less and less, socialising more with his new friends whilst she still loitered in her same old social circle from school; he brought girls back to Pemberley to show them where he lived, and he liked to think he romanced them, although he was sure the house bore the brunt of the work.

It had been the turn of summer when he had ventured up to The Lantern and found her there in the soft light of dusk; it was still warm, and the house was silent, and the grounds were dark. She was drinking a can of lager and smoking a cigarette, until she coughed and spluttered, stubbing it out and placing it in the empty can. She was always very vigilant about the risks of forest fires, he remembered. He walked over and snuggled under the blanket with her, and she nestled into the crook of his arm and snuggled into him in the same familiar way that she had for as long as he could remember; he knew it was a comfort, an escape from the grief and confusion still abound at Pemberley. They settled in to the silence, gazing down at the dark and silent building nestled in the land below.

“Come a little closer,” he murmured.

“Closer?” She echoed.

“Yes,” he said as he felt his pulse race, his breathing slow down.

“This close?”

 Her face was inches away from his now, he could see the traces of mascara in the corner of her eye, could smell the sunscreen she had earlier that day, the soft pinkness of her lips caused by that shiny lipbalm she used. He felt her tentatively place her hand on his. He glanced down, she was biting her lip. She was nervous. He knew he was as he leaned over and gently placed his lips on hers. She leaned back for a moment, unsure, scared… he knew what she felt, why she was so hesitant. This would change everything and regardless of what happened or any other outcome, this one event would change their friendship irrevocably. He could see the reticence in her eyes, could see her reluctance, understood it, but he did it anyway and kissed her fully; feeling her yield to his embrace, fuelled by cheap beer and adrenaline.

 

This was going to be a hard conversation. They had been dancing this familiar dance for a long time now, but he knew that it had been for too long. Now they were just stepping on each other’s toes, afraid to let go and spin off across the dancefloor in case the melody was just too different, the steps too cumbersome. But he knew it was time, and it seemed fitting that they were sitting here in what was once the Tower Bedroom, where they had played games, hiding in corners never wanting to be found.

She placed the cups on the counter. Lizzy knew what was coming, she could sense it in her stomach which had tied itself in knots. Every new beginning follows the end of something else, and she had seen the way he had looked at the blonde actress who fizzed and sparked on screen. And she knew that the way she was starting to feel for Benn Williams was something different too, but that she could never start a new story if this one was still waiting to be finished. Once upon a time she had hoped that the ending of their story would be different but knowing this _was_ the end was definitely better than the unfinished half relationship that they had endured for the last twelve years, both of them wanting more but neither wanting to admit it, yet there had been no promises made, no secret words spoken; it had been everything and nothing.

She sat uncomfortably on the couch, pulling at her jumper as she perched awkwardly. The dulcet tones of a well-remembered song wafted out over the surround sound system, the gentle chords underscoring the haunting melody.

“This,” he said, grasping at a memory he had hidden away. “This is Nina Simone, do you remember?”

It flashed into his head, like a scene from a film, a glorious flashback sequence replaying in glorious technicolour. They were sitting there on her bed, watching the little portable black and white television flicker away in the darkness; the late night film that neither of them were watching, the nervous thud of his heart as he waited for the right time, the time that never arrived, the heart that flickered and jumped as she leaned on him, her head on his shoulder, her face temptingly close.

She remembered it, the details faded around the edges, already disappeared into the periphery of her memory; but the feeling, the anticipation… Yes, she remembered that, all too well. How he smelled, how her fingers felt against the soft wool of his jumper, how she wanted him to make the first move, scared of the rejection in case she had misunderstood. He had jumped up, turned off the television, putting on the Nina Simone record from Winston’s collection, the voice crackling into life, the music echoing across into the long gallery. He had taken her by the hand and led her into the moonlit gallery; as he pulled her into a dance, it had felt as sweet and heady as the lilac wine in the lyrics of the song. But he hadn’t kissed her, and she had always wondered why.

 “Yeah,” she nodded, treading water in the shared memory, the time when they were almost something bigger than what they were. “You should have kissed me that night.”

He eyed her with curiosity, if he had known that she had wanted him to then he would have done it. At that moment in time, he would have married Lizzy Darcy if he had known that she had felt the same way about him. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t, and they couldn’t, and the time was gone now.

“I wanted to kiss you that night, the things I wanted to do to you that night. I had it planned in my head,” he felt as if he was telling her a great secret, “but I couldn’t quite get up the nerve.”

“Maybe things would have been different.”

 “One decision away from a different life,” he said, his words tinged with a faint hint of regret. “But that was the thing, Lizzy,” a change in mood, in his voice, “you didn’t want me to kiss you.”

“I didn’t want things to _change_.”  There was a snapping tone to her voice and it reminded him of the quick thwack of one of those bracelets that used to slap against your wrist. Sharp and sudden, out of the blue.  “But I always wanted _you._ ” Her voice softened, “that never changed.”

“But things did change, Lizzy.”

“I know,” she understood what he was trying to say. “It could have been different, but it would never have been the same, I think… I think it would have been forced, you would have hated me eventually.”

He looked up at her, “it wouldn’t have been forced, Lizzy. Being with you, having a baby with you… the thought of it…”

“The thought of it sent you running back to London with your girlfriend.”

He looked at her for a moment, because that wasn’t the way he remembered it. He had gone back to London with Cara, but there had been the letter. The letter where he had told her that he was ready to be a dad, be a husband if that was what she wanted. He was ready to do all of these things with her, because the thought of not doing them with her and having to do them with someone else just hadn’t made sense to him. He studied her face, he always thought she had known this and chosen to do it all without him anyway. She had always been so protective of her heart, always keep it locked away and packed up and under guard.

“The thought of it made me happier than I had ever been,” he moved over to the couch and sat next to her. He felt her relax a little. “It was all in the letter…?”

She examined his face with a haunted look in her eyes, “what letter…?” and then as if she remembered something hidden away in the deep corners of her memories, “the letter… but... I never read it.”

She reached over placed her hand on his; she had always felt that these little snippets of him, the half days and hours of frantic attention, the stolen kisses, the hidden relationship had been all she deserved, that this was all he wanted to give her, but as she looked at him now she realised that all this time he had been holding back, because he didn’t want to offer his heart on a plate to her again and have her refuse it.

“It doesn’t matter now, Lizzy,” he said softly as he read her face. He brushed the curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear in a well-practiced move.

Matthew had always believed that in some other glorious alternate reality their time streams had collided in perfect harmony – blazing across an imaginary universe with incandescent fire. He glanced at her face; she was still the same girl that he loved for nearly his whole life. Different kinds of love – playful, angry, romantic, lustful, unrequited, jealous, empty – but love nonetheless in all its different forms, it was simply never the right love at the right time and their time had faded quietly into history now, never to be revisited.

They both knew that a relit cigarette never quite tasted the same as it did before.

“You were always so dismissive of anyone who tried to steal your heart…with me I thought it was because I wasn’t good enough,” he glanced up at her hesitantly. “But now I think that it was simply because all this time you’ve been waiting for a better type of thief.”

“I always thought it was you.”

“I think we’ve both always known that it was never going to me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Not really.”

 

There was a look, a single glance, and she knew that he understood. She had always loved the way they could communicate without saying a word to each other; it had been their little secret, this non-verbal conversation spoken across crowded parties, at boring soirees. They had always left so many things about them open-ended, but this conversation at the top of the house in Derbyshire seemed to p­rovide them both with the closure that they needed.

She grasped his hand; the one that used to be covered in mud as they scrabbled about in the woods as kids, she studied it – it was almost as familiar as her own. His little finger was slightly bent from where he broke it one summer learning archery, and she had fallen about laughing as he cried and ran for his mum, the odd nail on his thumb where she had closed the car door on it and it had swollen and cracked with infection, and finally the ridge on his finger where his wedding ring had been; the band of gold had always been removed before his hands had touched her body, as if he thought it was able to bear witness to his infidelity. All that was left now though was a faint indent in the skin as the reminder of fifteen years of marriage. She wondered how he felt about it now that it was over, she knew she would never ask. 

“When you think about it, Lizzy, it’s only certain people, isn’t it? They’re the ones.” 

She didn’t need him to explain, she knew what he meant as he kissed her for the last time.

And that was the end.


	39. Sophia - 1685

Sophia Darcy was too clever to simply marry for love, knowing that in her position the best she could hope for was a husband that was mostly faithful and did not expect her to raise his bastards, so she took her father’s dowry of £10000 and found the least offensive husband she could; William Clarendon was rich, handsome and dead within the year from smallpox – whilst his estates passed to his younger brother, her dowry reverted back to her and she took her money and her grief and returned to town.

She was back in her apartments in the Palace at Richmond when she heard word that her brother’s wife had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. No-one knew what she had been doing roaming the hallways in the early hours of the morning, but one of the younger maids claimed to have heard shouts and screams. Hortense had tipped over the low balustrade of the upper landing and landed at an awkward angle on the wooden floor below. Her wig covered the bloody wound on the top of her head, she been found the following morning by a young maid who raised the alarm, but it was too late to save Lady Darcy, who had already been dead for several hours. It would have been easy to fall over the low bannister when you imbibe wine at such a rate, one of the older ladies thought as the body was covered in a thick blanket. She had told the magistrate as much when he had come to question them all about the events of the evening, her lips pursing as she recounted the harsh temper and unladylike manners of the recently deceased.

Cyril remarried with undue haste to a girl called Louisa Morley, who came from a local manor and had no aspirations of grandeur. She was well loved by her servants and adored by a husband who knew full well that he had sacrificed his eternal soul to make her his bride.

 

Anne Stuart, Sophia’s childhood friend and confidante, found a suitable partner in Prince George, who was thirty years of age and had been chosen by her Uncles and his own as a suitable match. Anne had laughed uncomfortably on her first meeting with her betrothed, but despite this, they found themselves quite happy with each other, finding that that shared a great deal in common and similar outlook on life and their duty. It was unexpected for Anne, who had believed that she would be shackled to a miserable, power-hungry prince, like William, the angry Dutchman who her sister had been married to at the age of fifteen, crying throughout the entirety of the ceremony.

A year after the wedding, Anne had travelled to Holland to visit her sister and found her heartbroken at her situation.  This visit, where her brother in law had been rude and demanding and her sister sad and withdrawn, meant that Anne had dreaded her betrothed being anything like William, but in George she found a quiet, self-effacing man who believed in supporting her and being a true partner. They were married in July 1683 and Sophia Darcy watched as her best friend, dressed in a lavish embroidered blue gown, said her vows in the subdued splendour of St James’ Palace. 

Lady Clarendon-Darcy’s return to court was much heralded by James Stuart. He was now King but to Sophia he would always simply be Anne’s father - the generous man, who laughed a lot and taught her how to play cards one winter when they were all snowed in at Richmond. She also appreciated his rugged handsomeness and forthright manner. She knew that he was a decided womaniser and had a whole stable of bastard children wandering about the country with a decidedly misplaced sense of power.

There had been lovers, of course, but all of whom had proved to Sophia that men of certain rank and privilege believed that they were due more than their allocation. There was James Fitzroy, now the Earl of Wentworth, one of the many bastard sons of the former King; he was handsome, of course, but he also suffered from an unswerving arrogance of entitlement that meant whilst he was adequate for a friendly flirtation and the occasional visit after hours, he would never be a partner for her in the sense that she longed for. When he pressed a proposal upon her, no doubt encouraged by her fortune and legitimacy, she refused. Sophia was holding out for someone better, someone who she liked, and someone whom she would never feel obliged to marry.

It was at Pemberley the following summer when the King noticed how Lady Clarendon-Darcy laughed with the gentlemen of the card table, how she flirted equally with the ladies – flattering and charming everyone sitting there. She was a formidable woman, he thought, the curve of her bosom and the sparkle in her eye caused a burn of lust in him that he had not felt in a while and he was determined that he would have her. Sophia could see him eyeing her from across the room, but she was determined to ignore it, determined to pretend that she couldn’t see the way he looked at her with desire in his eyes

The touch of the King’s hand under her skirts had made Sophia feel more alive than she had ever done. She had spent the evening flirting with him, pandering to his vanity and looking up at him with those dark grey eyes that made him lust after her. She knew it, of course, was fully aware of the effect that she was having upon this man who was old enough to be her father, this man with the soft fingers that touched and stroked her in places that made her shudder with desire and anticipation. She surrendered herself to him that cold, unfeeling winter evening, as the ladies of the court were retiring, and the gentlemen roamed the halls looking for sport; as she felt him move inside her for the first time; pushing harder than she had felt before, she grasped for something to hold onto, afraid that she was about to fall off the earth.


	40. Lizzy

Lizzy sat in the chair feeling every one of her thirty-seven years as she was primped and preened and prodded by the make-up artists of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ next to the gaggle of twenty-something actresses who were playing the Bennet sisters. She felt out of place, being the only ‘supporting artist’ to be in the same area as the actual stars of the film, and even though she knew it had been arranged to make her feel a bit special and important, it just made her feel awkward.  Sitting there reading her book, her mad curls had already been tamed and pinned up into an authentically intricate Regency ‘do’ and then been wrapped in a hairnet and pinned again to stop any movement whilst she was taken to costume.

The dress that she had been fitted for was phenomenal; the puffed sleeves were trimmed in gold brocade, which matched the detailing to the front. Made from royal blue silk, it crinkled when she walked, the stiff fabric and the underlying petticoats noisily rubbing against her legs. Although it was hemmed to the perfect length and she didn’t need to lift it, she felt the need to, personifying the wretched yet resolute Jane Austen character that she was somehow becoming by osmosis. For the last few months she had felt very much like an Anne Elliot rather than any one of the Bennet sisters; even Mary Bennet, probably more resolute than wretched, seemed to have been living her best life.

Lizzy walked across the courtyard, eager to see the preparations taking place inside. She had been strictly forbidden from using the grand staircase since the production trucks had arrived as Pemberley was retrofitted back to the 1800s. The finale of the Ball ended with a long sweeping shot throughout the rooms where the action took place and Matthew was currently walking through the action with the Steadicam operator as they planned the complicated series of shots and sequences that were all detailed minutely. For all his many faults, Matthew really was a tremendously good at what he did; totally passionate about any project that he embarked upon and she was glad that he was here, filming the story of Elizabeth and Darcy in the house they had lived in. She stood at the edge of the action; self-consciously looking around the room that she had known all her life, it had been transformed into the majestic ballroom of Netherfield Hall.

Lizzy took a seat in a quiet corner of the hall, reading a random book that she had picked up at the airport on the way back from France and hadn’t got around to starting. It wasn’t holding her interest, and, in her mind, she blamed the awkward week in France with Carol and Hugh for being distracted and choosing something with a pretty cover and little substance. They had barely walked through the door of the villa when Carol announced rather bluntly that they were separating, with Hugh nodding quietly and confirming that it was true. For the sake of appearances, they were still planning on appearing together in public until the divorce was finalised and for all Lizzy could tell the split was amicable on both sides.

The week had passed with strained conversations and awkward outings as they performed a well-rehearsed charade in public. Although Lizzy didn’t especially like Carol as a person, she was always sad when marriages ended. They had been together for a long time now, their lives so entwined with each other’s that it was sad to think that they wouldn’t be there together anymore and now when she picked up the floppy paperback with the pink cover, all she could see was her father’s brown eyes sadly smiling at her over breakfast on the terrace. 

Harriet was sitting with Sam, the Third AD who she had known forever, chatting to him animatedly and laughing at everything he said. She was part of these integral scenes too and had been to the dance studio in London for the past two weekends to practice the three labour-intensive dances with the rest of the cast. College had started well, and she was making the most of the October half term to question the seamstresses and costume team about all aspects of their work; Harriet had chosen an eclectic mix of A-Levels – Textiles, Photography and History – she wasn’t sure how they would fit into her future, but she chose things that she liked and was sure that life would mould itself around them. She was wearing a beautiful emerald green dress in a shiny taffeta and her hair was pinned and wrapped under a befeathered turban. They had been very specific about the colours of costuming Darcy and the Bingleys at the Ball and a lot of the dresses had been modelled on the gowns of Elizabeth and Georgiana Darcy that had been on display at the V&A – she had been fascinated by it and explained it in great length whilst her mum listened half-heartedly, distracted by work papers and Debs’ relationship drama, which was currently unfolding on the couch over two bottles of prosecco and a curry.

Lizzy tried not to notice when Benn Williams walked on set; although she inadvertently felt her heart flip. She glanced over; he was already fully costumed in one of the early, stiff Darcy outfits; his curls tousled to perfection and his cravat devilishly high. Casually she looked up at him and caught him looking at her; he blinked slowly and then looked away, turning his attention to the woman with bright red hair who was standing next to him. Lizzy felt a prickle of anxiety sweep down her body, manifesting itself on her arm in goosebumps.

There were members of the production team running about here and there, extras and dancers moving from make-up and costume, runners shimmying people along from one area to another, the clatter of equipment, the hum of noise; walkie talkies were hissing and fuzzing loudly and there was a general hubbub of people organising themselves. Matthew was concentrating on orchestrating his team – it was of the utmost importance that everyone did what they were supposed to do when they were supposed to do it or else the whole sequence of shots wouldn’t work. Casey’s script had followed the standard pattern and showed Elizabeth and Darcy verbally sparring with each other, as well as the Bennet family demonstrating their inferior social skills.

The dance; the slow moving, intricate, classic formation was the way that he would showcase the physical manifestation of the attraction between Elizabeth and Darcy without having them sneak off halfway through and having sex in the gardens. For all its prim properness, he knew that the story was about two people who really fancied each other but who couldn’t admit it to themselves, let alone each other – especially not when the only contact they could have was at formal balls and assemblies where they were standing on a dancefloor like performing monkeys and being watched by anyone of any consequence.

Benn was talking softly with Jenny Graves, as his Elizabeth they had built a great working relationship over the last few months, and she made him laugh with the random snapchats she sent him and the sense of humour that they shared over stupid things that happened on set. She even once provided him with a live commentary via text of one of his old films – a teen comedy from the nineties that he did straight out of drama school - where he played the best friend to the leading lady. He remembered that Lizzy had loved the film too and he found that the pangs of longing for her were still as vehement as they had been when he left.

Jenny’s over attentiveness would have been annoying if it hadn’t filled a terrible void of loneliness and made him laugh rather than think about drinking.  She secretly admitted to him once, after a long emotionally draining rehearsal of the Hunsford proposal scene, that she had a poster of him on the back of her door all through high school. She whispered that she was fairly convinced that he had been responsible for her sexual awakening even if he was old enough to be her dad; he had blushed a little and she had spent the rest of the afternoon taking the piss out of him. Quite understandably, he thought.

Technically he knew that he _was_ old enough to be her dad; she was playing true to the age of her character - twenty - whereas he was fourteen years older than twenty-eight-year-old Darcy would have been and would probably have been better cast as Mr Bennet. He felt guilty that he wasn’t cast in more age-appropriate roles, or with more age-appropriate actresses. Even the brilliant and still beautiful Mariella Jones, who had played his love interest in ‘Praise to The Skies’ was playing his future mother-in-law in this production, and it had added a certain humour to the scenes they shared when he could still vividly recall feeling her holding her breath and trying not to laugh as his Stephen Malis beard tickled her inner thigh during an intense love scene. His only consolation was that Matthew hadn’t shot his close ups using the new 8k camera; he had learned his lesson last time and realised he practically needed to be shot through Vaseline these days, his forty-two-year-old wrinkles being far too high def for those shots now.

Benn hadn’t expected to see Lizzy at the shoot, didn’t understand why when he walked on set she was sitting there reading a book and dressed in full regency regalia – the blue brought out the colour of her eyes, sending them spiralling from a dark grey to seemingly being infused with stardust; he couldn’t help but notice how the corsetry had pushed up her bosom, even though he would never admit to it. He eyed her slowly, wondering what she was thinking, if she had thought about him. He had spent the last six weeks at Shepperton throwing himself into sorting out his life; he had joined AA, visiting a small meeting in Ealing each week. It was strange having to start all over again at forty-two – he had never once considered that his marriage wouldn’t last forever, but he was optimistic for the future, whatever it held. Benn had expected a message or a call from Lizzy, but his phone had fallen silent for the last month, despite him fervently hoping that any bridges they had burnt could be rebuilt.

Matthew watched Tamsin from across the room, she was dancing with Sam Gallagher, who was playing Captain Denny, and he felt a small pang of jealousy as she laughed and teased him, pressing herself against his redcoat uniform and taking a whole host of selfies that would inevitably appear on her Instagram at some point that evening. She was so close to Lydia Bennet in temperament that she had practically cast herself in the role, even though he had her pencilled in for the more straight-laced Mary before the first round of casting. He had never expected to fall for the quirky blonde, with the funny smile and odd accent. She was from a small village outside Huddersfield and he found that, even though the initial attraction had been physical, he loved the way that she took the time to understand him and she was the first person he wanted to speak to in the morning and the last person he wanted to speak to at night. Looking at her now, all strapped into stays and corsetry, he couldn’t wait until they had finished for the day so that he could pull her out of it and feel the warmth of her skin under his own.

Lizzy was partnered with one of the officers, a lovely young whippersnapper called Rhys, who didn’t have any lines, but looked good in a uniform and had spent three weeks learning the dance. He looked nervous as the first bars of the song played, but easily found his pace and they bounded through the cotillion with the other three couples in their set. Laughing with Rhys, albeit silently, she noticed that Benn would quickly glance in her direction as he observed the dancing from the outskirts of the room with a glass of Ribena masquerading as port. Even though the music played intermittently, the main noise coming from the room was the soft shuffle and stomp of dancing shoes as they moved across the wooden floor. As they moved into Mr Beveridge’s Maggot, the dance which she had practised so hard with Benn, Lizzy was excited to see how well he had rehearsed.

All standing in position, Rhys and Lizzy found themselves adjacent to Benn and Jenny for the start of the dance. Runners and crew were positioning markers and adjusting lighting, whilst the Steadicam operator would move throughout the dance with the couples as if he was part of it. Lizzy saw Rhys glance at Benn standing next to him, he looked at him with an awe and reverence that she hadn’t seen someone do before, but she imagined that this was, for the newly graduated drama student, of great importance.

He watched her intently. She turned to look at him, giving him that cute little smile that he realised still had the same effect on him. His heart gave a tiny stir, started beating a little faster and he was suddenly very aware of the heat rising to his face. He knew then that he was in more danger than ever before. As they stepped into the first movement, Lizzy watched as Darcy and Elizabeth stepped together silently, moving together and then apart; then it was her turn to repeat the movement, with a gloved hand she felt his fingers around hers a little tighter than expected.

As they moved apart again and back into the first position, she saw him look at her, his face saying nothing and his eyes saying everything, and she felt as if they were having an almost clandestine affair on the set of the movie. She knew what she had said, what she had thought, what she had tried to supress, but tonight in the glorious splendour of the medieval banqueting hall Lady Elizabeth Darcy knew that she was burning like the whole damn fire. 

  1. 28\. NETHERFIELD. BALLROOM. EVENING. INT.



The room is decadently decorated and bursting with life and people. DARCY and ELIZABETH are dancing Mr Beveridge’s Maggot, we see them pull towards each other and away.

                    ELIZABETH:

It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.

               (Beat.)

I’ve talked about the dance and now you should make a remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.

                    DARCY:

And what would you have me say, Miss Elizabeth?

                    ELIZABETH:

Well perhaps I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.

          (Beat.)  

Or we could remain silent.

DARCY observes ELIZABETH for a moment as the dance continues. He dances with the other lady in the group, watching ELIZABETH.

                    DARCY:

     Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?

                    ELIZABETH:

     Sometimes.

               (Beat.)

One must speak a little, you know.

(Beat.)

It would be odd for us to be entirely silent for half an hour together.

ELIZABETH watches as DARCY dances with the other lady in the group, before she repeats the movement with the gentleman as DARCY observes. This isn’t a dance, this is a duel. 

“Cut!” - and the shot was over from this angle – the digital technicians immediately jumped on the footage, moving the files from the card and into the edit, syncing and backing up files so none of the precious footage was lost. Henry Gibbons – a stalwart of the British film industry, who was playing Mr Bennet - demanded that they checked the gate, and Matthew led him away trying to explain that this wasn’t needed anymore. 

The dancers took a break as the scene was reset, Harriet wandered over to Lizzy with a bottle of water and an increasingly itchy head from the satin turban which, although it looked beautiful, was heavy and annoying. She looked up at the gilded plasterwork on the ceiling, the three tall columns painted to look like plaster and each containing the trunk of a tree from the estate, and the amazing chandelier in the centre of room – fully illuminated now with real candles and looking, quite accurately, like something out of a Hollywood production.

It was 10pm before filming was completed; amidst the hubbub and the noise of the cast of fifty all being defrocked and dewigged, their costumes and wigs placed in named boxes for the completion of filming tomorrow, Lizzy saw Benn standing at the doorway of the servant’s hall, wrapped up in his North Face jacket and a tartan scarf. She felt a little bubble of happiness burst in her stomach at the sight of his face, he looked over at her, surprised to see her dressed in her normal clothes, and made a quick gesture of his head. Giddy, she jumped up from the make-up chair, wrapped herself up in her coat and walked towards the door. Without drawing attention to it, he shyly slipped his hand into hers and felt her squeeze it gently. Holding on to each other tightly they disappeared into the crowd of people dispersing for the night.

*

Benn wrapped his arm around Lizzy’s shoulder as he proudly walked with her towards the north front entrance of Pemberley, she looked up at him and grinned, and he had grinned back with a Cheshire cat smile. The touch of her gloved hand on the dancefloor had sent sparks through him and although he managed to concentrate on the job in hand, he was nervous with anticipation. Grabbing his arm, she took him through the staff entrance gate at the top of the rose garden, punching in the passcode with her mittened hand.

“Have you brought me here to prove a point?”

Lizzy looked up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“This is where you told me off – None of Your Business, You Hateful Man.”

“Oh yes,” she said surprised “How did you remember that?”

“You were wearing shoes with bees on them,” with a serious face now. “And you had just wiggled past me as if you were daring me to follow you.”

She laughed as she recalled the day, “I was daring you and I was so glad I had those shoes on because I wanted to strut past you for being so rude. Hateful man!”

They stopped under the wooden structure at the top end of the rose garden illuminated by the moonlight of the October night and they stood huddled together in the chill of the air. He pulled her into a tight embrace, inhaling her. She fell into it as if it was the most natural thing in the world and right now, right in this moment Lizzy Darcy knew that she didn’t care if he broke her heart, didn’t care if she got hurt, she just wanted this for as long as it lasted.

“I know you are worried,” he said.

“I’m not,” her eyes sought his. “I trust you.”

They grinned at each other in the coldness and the anticipation of what was to come crackled. As she gazed up at him he realised that he wanted to savour this moment, to enjoy every single second of this, wanted to look at her, shining up at him in the moonlight, the delicate wisp of her eyelash, the rosy flush of her cheek, the enticing curl behind her ear and the look that she gave him that made him feel as if everything was new and the world was to play for.

“Mum!”

There was a shout, a noise in the distance, rattling off the walls of the garden, echoing across the manicured lawn. She looked away for a moment, recognising the tone, drawn to the sound, before falling back into the embrace, until the voice was clearer, louder and she pulled away, her eyes drawn to the oncoming figure in the distance.

“Harriet?”

“Mum!” Harriet’s shout echoed across the empty rose garden. “Why aren’t you answering your phone? They’ve been trying to call you!” She blurted out angrily. “They’ve been trying to call everyone, but none of you were answering the phone! They phoned the estate office, Joyce is going mad! She can’t get hold of grandad either…” She grabbed hold of her mum, relief and anger shaking out of her.

“Calm down, what’s happened, who has been phoning?” Lizzy searched Harriet’s face, holding her stare, trying to reassure her.

“The hospital,” she said before bursting into tears.

“What?” Lizzy went immediately ashen-faced, “which hospital? What’s happened? What did they say?”

“They think Imogen took some pills, they don’t know; but no-one was answering the phone and I’ve been waiting for you to get back.” Lizzy hugged Harriet tightly, “Mum, you need to go to there now… There needs to be someone there in case she - ” Harriet was unable to finish the sentence.

Lizzy looked at Benn, he didn’t know what to do or what to say, but he wrapped his arms around them both before trying to take command of the situation.

“I’ll drive you down there now, I have my car.”

“No,” she grabbed her car keys and bag. “You have a film to finish and you need sleep. Matthew will go mad if this film runs over budget…” She put her head in her hands, running her fingers through her hair; thinking, concentrating, trying to work out everything in her head.

He took her hands, made her focus on him; she looked haunted and all he wanted to do was wrap her in his arms and tell her that everything was going to be alright. But there was no time for that, so he had to be practical about it all.

“Lizzy, I’m taking you; you’re in no state to drive and there is no way your car will make it to London,” he grabbed her coat.  She started to protest.

“Look,” he said rationally, “I’m not on set until tomorrow afternoon, I have plenty of time to drop you off and get back.”

Sometimes it was nice not to have to make decisions. She nodded, resigned to letting him take charge of the situation. He held her hand tightly in the car as they drove away, she looked forward into the darkness, focusing on the rocket lolly air freshener dancing jovially from the rear-view mirror, trying not to think of what misery lay ahead.


	41. Elizabeth - 1822

The marriage of Georgiana Margaret Darcy and Henry Montague Alveston was the most joyous of affairs, the happy couple exchanging vows at the small church in Lambton, before returning to Pemberley for their Wedding Breakfast. Elizabeth had arranged with Mrs Reynolds for a delightful summer feast, and the ladies of the kitchen had excelled themselves in the preparation of such. The centrepiece was a rich, fruit cake, covered in sugared icing and decorated with flowers. The new Mrs Alveston and her husband were to travel firstly to Kent, and then onwards to visit relations in Scotland as part of the bridal tour. Darcy thought that he might burst with pride upon seeing his sister so deliriously happy and he knew that this marriage with Alveston was more than he could have ever wished for her – the two were so in love and he was anticipating great things for their future, especially as he hoped to see them both in Derbyshire very frequently.

“Elizabeth!” The shrill tone echoed from the entrance hall, “Mrs Darcy, I must demand your attention at once!”

Turning on her heel, Elizabeth made her way back down the stairs and towards Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Once so intimidating, Darcy’s aunt had begun to shrink in her old age, both in size and demeanour. Nine years had passed since she had refused to attend their wedding, stubborn to the core and with a ruthless snobbery that affected all her close personal relationships, it had taken effort on Elizabeth’s part to make it right between her new family; it had not been easy, and Lady Catherine had been a hard taskmaster

Anne De Bourgh had now been married to her cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam for these past two years; Mrs Fitzwilliam, once dominated by her strong-willed mother, but now strengthened by the love she never thought she would find, had enforced a move to the simpler dower house and away from Rosings for her mother a few months after her wedding, which had caused ructions in their relationship. The Fitzwilliams were not in attendance this day, the argument between Darcy and his cousin still hanging in the air.  In the early days of their acquaintance he had told her that his good opinion once lost was lost forever and she had continually found this to be true. Colonel Fitzwilliam was not a bad man, he had simply made some regretful decisions, whilst Elizabeth hoped that her husband would renew his friendship with his cousin, she feared that it would never be, resigning herself to it with a sad inevitability. Lady Catherine, reduced to the living on her widow’s allowance, which was still a generous two thousand a year, found herself travelling the length of the country in the barouche box that her daughter still permitted her to use, residing with any relatives gracious enough to permit her to stay. She was usually in residence at Pemberley from the last week in July until the second of August – a three-week stay being the limit for the Darcys and their household.

Lady Catherine was sitting in the large satin upholstered chair next to the new fireplace that had been recently installed and she was scrutinising it, looking through the eyeglass that hung on a chain around her neck.

“Was this your idea, Elizabeth?” She sounded haughty.

“Lady Catherine, do you approve?” Elizabeth always found the best way to counteract her Aunt by marriage was to ask her another question, the Lady always enjoying advising others of her opinion, whether they asked for it or not. In this, Lady Catherine was not altered.

“I do approve,” she nodded. “I find that it always benefits a house such as this to install new fancies and fireplaces to keep abreast of fashion. People scoffed when I commissioned the new chimney piece at Rosings, the cost alone – eight hundred pounds, which is a vast amount of money – was a source of ridicule and dismay amongst many in our circle.”

 

“It is a very impressive chimney piece, Lady Catherine, I can testify to its superiority”

“Why of course it is, Elizabeth. My taste and fine eye for fashionable accoutrements are incomparable, I have often been told this by the greatest people of our acquaintance.”

“I am glad that you approve of the fireplace, Aunt,” she said in an affectionate tone, she had grown to hold this crotchety woman in high regard and whilst she would probably never say that she loved her, she appreciated her visits. Lady Catherine reached over and took Elizabeth’s hand in her own, holding it tight.

“Elizabeth, since you have joined our family I have been astonished at how amicably a woman of low-born connections such as yourself can assimilate so satisfactorily into the role of mistress of Pemberley.”

Elizabeth held back a laugh and smiled genially, “thank you for your compliment, Lady Catherine, it makes the toil worthwhile to know that you hold me in such regard.”

“Indeed, it must be daily struggle for you. Now, where is my niece?”

Elizabeth knew, with a relief felt in every bone of her body, that she had been dismissed and called for her sister, the new Mrs Alveston.

Darcy was sitting in the grand chair in his study at the front of the house. From here he could see out onto the driveway, down the hill towards the gatehouse, and then onto the gardens of the west front, where the ornamental gardens – laid out only the summer before - were now fully in bloom, the scent of camellias drifting in through the open window on the warm, summer breeze. This was his study, his domain; on one side there was a row of bookcases from floor to ceiling – it was here that he kept items from his own private collections, volumes that had had collected on his grand tour, and manuscripts and books that had been given to him by his father-in-law on the occasion of his marriage from the gentleman’s own admirable library at Longbourn. In the centre was the large oak desk that had belonged to George Darcy – the portrait of the gentleman hanging above the fireplace opposite. How he wished his mother and father were alive to see this day; to see Georgiana so agreeably matched and beginning her married life from their ancestral home, and how delighted they would have been to see his own young family. There was a knock on the door; Henry.

 

Henry Alveston was a well-rounded gentleman of nearly thirty; he reminded Darcy very much of a Greek statue. He had been educated at Cambridge, as had Darcy, and was the second son of the Earl of Struthers. Georgiana, with her dowry of thirty thousand pounds and a newly-found confidence, had already decided that they would live in Derbyshire House for the first few years of their marriage; she had enjoyed the company of society in town and had made a strong circle of friends with whom she was regularly seen at countless parties, balls and the theatre. Nurtured by the sisters she had acquired through her brother’s marriage, she had flourished and grown into a desirable, accomplished and well-liked young lady of the Ton.

“Darcy,” Henry stammered slightly. “I know that you initially had concerns about me and my…erm…my fortune. I would simply like to promise you that I will…um... do all that I can to make your sister…my wife… the happiest woman walking the earth. Georgiana is my sun and moon, and I am so grateful that you were able to reconsider me as a partner for her.” He took a large gulp of the port and walked to the window.

Darcy smiled to himself as he looked at Alveston, who was so full of nerves and yet so cheerful. He reminded him of himself on his own wedding day and he was taken back to that joyful day when he knew that Elizabeth would be his and his alone until death parted them. Walking over to Henry, he placed his hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. The two men looked at each other and acknowledged an unspoken understanding – outside on the west front lawn, their wives were walking and laughing with a crowd of small children who were running about in the summer sunshine. Georgiana, dressed in a simple ivory satin wedding gown that belied her ancestry, had flowers in her hair and an immovable smile on her face; Elizabeth was dressed in a pale lilac muslin and skipping along to the tune that was playing in her head, dancing with her children, immensely happy.


	42. Lizzy

Lizzy opened her eyes somewhere past Birmingham, the lights of the city flashing across their faces as they hurtled down the M6 and onwards to London. She looked over at Benn, reaching over she placed her hand on his knee, wanting to feel something real. She sat there silently as The Beatles played on the radio, not wanting to think about what was waiting in the private wing of the Chelsea and Westminster hospital.

He knew how she felt – midnight calls and being summoned to distant hospital wards - it had been the night after Madeleine’s thirty-fourth birthday party when he received a similar call. His dad, Derek, had finally succeeded in drinking himself to the point of no return and his brother was on the phone, begging him to go to Manchester to make his peace with him. Benn had used his wealth to provide for his family, to give them all the promise of a new life and chances he had needed to work for, but rather than being appreciative, Derek had thrown the money back in his eldest son’s face and gone to the tabloids, selling his story to the highest bidder. He had died a few months later, and the two had never reconciled.

 “You make me dizzy, Miss Lizzy!” he sang badly, trying to glean a smile from her face. He was trying hard to maintain a level of seriousness about the situation, but also trying to keep her upbeat.

“Winston always used to play this song on my birthday,” she turned the radio up – a smallest hint of a smile crossing her face as she remembered the tune she thought she had forgotten.

“My Nan was called Lizzy,” he turned the heating up slightly after he noticed her shiver, “we used to dance around with her to this when we were kids.”

They sat in silence again, the music turned to Joni Mitchell; it was a song that Lizzy loved, and she turned it up, basking in the husky, youthful tones.

“Please don’t tell me that you like this,” he laughed, reaching to search for another station.

“Don’t turn it over… please!”

He deep sighed and turned his eyes back to the road, “do you actually like this?”

“My mum…” she smiled, tears unexpectedly and strangely forming behind her eyes. “She loved Joni Mitchell, it’s probably one of the only things I remember about her. So weird this song is on the radio…”  She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper, “when she died I used to listen to her records and this album…this was her favourite, I knew it was because the corners of the sleeve were all frayed and worn, and the record sometimes skipped.  My dad always used to cry, and I never understood why… I thought it would remind him of her in good ways!”

There another silence, but not a comfortable one; one that felt like a balloon being blown up to bursting point, waiting for the bang, the release, the noise. Lizzy inhaled deeply, gulping for air in the car which smelled like lemons and rosemary, she opened the window slightly, wanting to feel the cold rush of quickly moving motorway air pounding against her face, the resistant currents pushing against her fingertips as they danced together.

“She died when I was five.”                              

She said this as a matter of fact; as if she was ordering food in a restaurant.  Benn was unsure how to react and she show the momentary hesitation glance across his face.

“Don’t worry, it was a long time ago,” she reassured him, “I didn’t really know her… but, whenever I hear this song I think of her and it makes me feel like she’s watching out for me...”

Benn reached for her hand in the darkness of the car, finding that she immediately and instinctively grasped it, holding on tightly.

The services outside Oxford were half-closed, patronised by long-distance lorry drivers and a few other travellers on their way to Dover for the early morning ferries. Lizzy always recognised them by the proud stickers on their people carriers; the small tired-looking children plodding through the brightly-lit arcade to use the loo and buy magazines with garish toys taped to the front, the mums shrill and fractious as they tried to keep one step ahead of the itinerary, the dads scrolling through their phones. She was sitting in a seat by the window, tucked into the corner, looking out at the past midnight nightlife, she had been checking her phone constantly – her call to the hospital had confirmed that there had been no change – she thought about her little sister who had felt so unhappy about her life on this earth that she had tried to remove herself from it, and she couldn’t comprehend how the vivacious, bubbly girl with the long legs and the big smile had ever felt so alone.

Benn – currently being accosted by the barista, who was convinced he was off the telly – was buying coffee and cake as requested, and it seemed to take ages before he wandered over with a tray, balancing two large lattes and a slice of carrot cake. He slid into the booth next to her and handed her the drink, which she took greedily from his hands, slurping the caffeine into her veins.

“Did you get recognised?” She wondered how often it must happen for him; outside of Derbyshire nobody knew who she was really, and she was grateful for that.

“No,” he took a gulp of his own coffee, needing to feel more awake than he currently did. “She thought I was off Coronation Street – asked me if I was married to Gail!”

“Everyone has been married to Gail, you should have said yes!”

“Lizzy, I was nominated for an Oscar,” he said with mock consternation

“Yes,” she looked at him cheekily, “but you didn’t win.”

“I was a close second,” he said sternly, taking a forkful of the cake and offering it to her, she took it gladly. They had been on set most of the day, and even though production catering was good, the cake made her realise how hungry she was.

“I’ll have to watch out for this – first profiteroles, now carrot cake – you’ll make me fat!” Her mouth was full of cake as she spoke, before taking another piece. They drank their lattes, Lizzy’s phone bleeped several times: messages from her dad who was probably only about fifty miles behind them now, and a message from Matthew who had collected Harriet taken her back to the Alveston.

“He said that he can move your scenes to later on,” Lizzy said, as they walked back to the car with coffees and cake to go. “So you can get some sleep I guess...”

“He doesn’t want me to look like shit for the close-ups, that’s all!” He opened the door for her and she clambered in. “Don’t think that he’s developed a duty of care or anything!”

“He did say that you would need extra time in make-up and said…that he wouldn’t be shooting your close-ups in 8k? Does that make sense to you?” She looked up at him, confused.

Benn grinned, “yes, it does. The cheeky bastard.”

 

They began their journey again, the sleepy romantic songs of the middle of the night moving to more upbeat early morning ones and they found themselves dancing along to Meat Loaf as they hit the M25, before turning off the radio and driving into central London in a hushed silence, both preoccupied with their own thoughts and worries.

“Do you know why she did it?” He asked, holding onto the wheel, staring ahead.

“I have no idea,” she murmured. “How could anyone feel so hopeless that they would want to do that?” She looked quickly at him, as if wanting a reassuring answer and found it lacking.

He was clenching his jaw, his eyes were glassy and focused intently on the road, “that day when we first met…”

“The day when you were a complete arse…” She joked, before the look on his face made her realise that this wasn’t funny.

“Yes,” he swallowed hard. She noticed the crack in his voice, the creases on his forehead, the way he was blinking as he did when he was nervous. “I was in a bad place when I got to Derbyshire.”

“You said that…you said that to me, I remember,” her voice softened, and she placed her hand on his, wrapping her fingers around his. “What happened…tell me…”

“What you must know is that I was drinking a lot; I can be a selfish, horrible drunk, Lizzy… I don’t care about anything apart from where the next drink is coming from. I’m no good to anyone when I drink,”

His voice was low, scratchy and he grabbed her hand, holding tightly, feeling as if he was holding on during a storm and letting go would send him falling beneath the waves.

“I had been drinking since eight that morning, not quite whisky on my cornflakes, but not fair off… the day was so empty, nothing in it... just thoughts running around my head. It was rush hour when I decided I needed more booze; Sean, my brother, had been to all of the shops within walking distance, told them not to serve me, and they wouldn’t.”  He smiled to himself, “but London is a big place.”

He was telling her was something that he kept hidden in the secret parts of himself, this had been buried somewhere deep inside where he never let any light in and he had never told anyone about it, scared that they would view him differently, that it would change their opinion of him. But now, driving to the capital in the middle of the night with her, he knew that he wanted to let her see all the hidden corners, allow her access to the darkest parts of his heart. 

“There was a shop in Balham that would have happily sold me enough Talisker to drown in…” his face looked wistful, haunted almost as he thought about what he nearly did. “I stood on the edge of the platform, waiting for the tube. Only one stop, get the booze, then home for Netflix and sadness and forgetting it.”

He swallowed deeply again, trying to centre himself.

“I stand right at the edge, feeling as if I could touch the other side and I know how easy it would be to let go of it all.”

He had wrapped his toes around the curve of the platform, felt the warm breeze of air which pushes its way through the tunnels hidden underneath the streets of the city above, the smell that precedes the oncoming train running through his nostrils. This would be his last breath, he thought, inhaling the familiar smell deeply. Somewhere behind him he could hear a song being played through a phone, the last thing he would hear was a tinny pop song with an annoyingly catchy chorus.

He felt himself lean forwards, ready to fall, ready to leave it all behind; and then the jarring yell of the man behind him, the pull of someone dragging him back, the deafening blare of the train siren, the sensation of falling backwards, the screech from the speeding hunk of metal, the sharp jolt of landing on the concrete concourse.

Benn had opened his eyes and found that as the train raced through the station he was laughing with relief.

“I came so close,” he said firmly, “I can understand the temptation.”

Lizzy could see the tears, the salty droplets reflecting the lights of the road as they rolled down his face. She reached over, pulling her sweater over her hand, gently dabbing the tears away as he drove on into the city itself.  As they drove past the main entrance of the hospital she could see that there were photographers already gathered, accosting anyone who came out, asking for news of Lady Imogen and she felt her stomach turn. The car pulled up outside the imposing structure of the hospital and as soon as it had stopped she unbuckled her seatbelt and wrapped her arms around him, holding him in the tightest of hugs, the firmest of embraces.

“If you ever, _ever_ feel like that again, you tell me,” she whispered, inhaling him deeply, gently pressing her lips to his cheek. She felt as if she wanted to unzip her skin and put him inside her, keep him safe from everything that could possibly hurt him, that no amount of closeness would ever be close enough.

He sighed into her shoulder, “I am so sorry to burden you with all of this.” He felt ashamed of laying this at her door knowing how difficult the next few hours would be for her.

“This is not a burden, don’t think that,” she soothed. “You have to share those parts of you sometimes, so you know that you’re not alone, and you’re not alone.” She gently kissed his hand. “Never alone… not now. You have me.”

He leaned back, stretching out against the soft leather seats which creaked as he moved to face her fully, twisting his body around awkwardly. He leaned over in the pale light of the early morning.

“Every day I think I have you figured out, think that I know who you are,” he pushed her curl behind her ear. “and every day you surprise me.”

“I try my best,” she said in a small, honest voice free from joking and humour.

It seemed as if she was standing there now before him, stripped down and raw and ready to be primed and painted. He leaned towards her, kissing her gently on the forehead, the touch of his lips to her temple sending a little shiver through her; it was slow and unrehearsed. This was Benn Williams now; not the actor, not the professional kisser, but the man who might perhaps be part of her future. There was a split second when she felt that this was the start of their story, that this was the way they would begin.

Although Benn didn’t know quite what this was, the name coursing through his veins, echoing around his brain, resounding within him like a big bass drum was Lizzy. She flowed through him in tiny sparks of gold and silver and he knew that she was why the universe had given him a glorious second chance

 “C’mon then,” he grabbed her bag and coat and got out of the car, before opening her door and taking her firmly by the hand. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

He guided her across the road, walking with her towards the photographers, protecting her from the questions and the flashbulbs and the noise, before leading her through the revolving doors and inside.

 


	43. Mabel -

The house in Norfolk was small. Not in the usual homely way as was the house at Longbourn or even the parsonage in Yorkshire occupied by her Aunt Mary, Uncle Hughes and their little regiment of boys; but small in that it felt confined, each room seeming to get tinier and tinier as she was led to her rooms in the guest suite. Mabel had been shipped to the house with her companion, Mrs Sedgwick, at the beginning of May. Felbrigg was a small estate near the seaside town of Cromer, and it had only been with strict instructions and careful planning that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s only daughter had been allowed to travel to the county. Even now the thought of young girls in seaside resorts, with the temptations of fragranced gentlemen and handsome sailors made her father visibly blanche.

The journey had been arduous as they had bounced and bobbed along on the roads that led to the coast, but it was who was waiting at the other end that kept her focused on the weeks ahead. James had been given two months of leave from his commission about the ship HMS Envoy, and would be sailing in to the quay at Great Yarmouth within the next few days. Mabel had not seen her brother since he joined the navy six years ago; she had been fourteen, merely a girl, and now here she was nearly twenty-one and ready to be presented at court the following season. Likewise, James Horatio Darcy had been twenty – young and eager for adventure – now he would be a hardened sailor of twenty-four. She wondered if he would have skin the colour of walnuts by now, crinkled and creased by the hot sunshine; would he smell like cinnamon and opium, his uniform scented with the heady fragrances of the ottoman markets, his voice husky with the rum of the Bahamas and the salt of the sea air. Imagining Captain Darcy aboard the ship darting about the Caribbean had given their mother palpitations, but it had given Mabel dreams that she knew were nigh on impossible.

A bell was sounding somewhere in the house, and outside in the hallway she could hear the Wyndham daughters – three silly fluttery girls with a predilection for fancy dresses and hair that looked like confectionary – running down the corridors. Mabel sighed, rolling her eyes at Eleanor in the mirror, who was dressing her hair in the absence of any ladies’ maid being available. Her room was called the Rose Room. It didn’t smell like roses, it smelled damp and unaired; the only allusion to its name a small row of plasterwork roses in the cornicing. It was a tiny, dark room, but she must appear grateful. The family were polite and accommodating, obviously honoured to have her staying with them; she could tell by the way they had paraded their small retinue of servants out on the front steps to greet her as she arrived in the barouche after seven days of travel. Their eldest son, Peter, had made an advantageous match with the youngest daughter of the Earl of Bentick, Maria Framingham, and they were due to marry within the month.

Mabel’s mother and father were due to attend, travelling up from the house in Grosvenor Square and back to Pemberley for the summer. They would then collect her from the house of Lord Suffield in Cromer, where James would travel to once he had reached Yarmouth. It was a complicated and detailed itinerary and she wished, more and more, that she could have simply met James directly from the ship. ‘That would not be becoming to your rank, Mabel dearest,’ she could hear her father’s voice echoing in her head. ‘Never forget that you are a Darcy, with all the riches and restrictions that it places upon you.’

Percy Wyndham sat reading in the library after dinner; he did not care for the masculine bravado on display in the Cabinet – the lavish room furnished with pictures and artefacts that his father William had brought back from the Grand Tour, his travelling partners being Fitzwilliam Darcy and a man of lower rank called Wickham, who had died at Waterloo – and so came here to find his next literary conquest. The door creaked open, a flurry of noise and giggles, the ruffle of silk and taffeta, and he saw the Darcy girl standing there, dressed in a gown of blue and silver, breathing a sigh of relief. She didn’t see him, hiding as he was in the corner of the room in the wing-backed chair, and she flounced over the window to gaze out, before huffing and puffing in to the book room. He viewed her with great humour; she was a wonderfully fine girl, he thought, with dark hair piled upon her head and a spark hidden behind her eyes. She was clever too; he had heard her debating on the slave trade of the Americas with his father earlier, and then she had played a really rather astonishing rondo on the piano, much to the chagrin of his three sisters, Penelope, Prudence and Phoebe, who had never really excelled at the pianoforte, or the harp, or anything, now he came to think about it.

Mabel dragged the book from its place on the bookshelf and positioned it on the large table, and herself on the comfortable green chair that matched the modern décor of the room. This was the nicest place in the house, away from all the giggling and shrieking about hats and dresses, and how beautiful the new young Queen was, how excited they were to travel to town for the coronation. She blamed her upbringing; a house full of boys was never going to encourage conversation about muslin, and her mother was much happier walking around the parkland than travelling to town to engage their modiste in the preparation of gowns. Mabel had noticed how the Wyndham girls had obviously looked down at her gown this evening; the embroidered panels apparently being terribly passé, the colours last season, and so she showed off with a performance of a ridiculously difficult piano piece. She knew she had blundered on the middle bit, but they would never know, and she considered them taught a lesson.

The atlas was huge, splayed out now in front of her.  She had recognised the gold Pemberley bull on the spine; inside the hard-woven cover, snagged and faded with age, was the nameplate of her father, his teenage cursive firmly scrawled denoting ownership. As she turned the pages she could see the annotations he had made in his youth; the plans he had put in place with his companions, the destinations they had wanted to travel, but Napoleon had put paid to most of his ideas, and the Darcy party had eventually ventured down further into the east than any other Englishmen had before; recovering Greek marbles, Egyptian treasures, and purchasing length of luscious fabrics from the Arabs. She had listened intently when she was younger, perched on his knee as he had recounted the tales of his adventures, gripped in wonder and admiration at the exploits of the man she called Papa.

“Planning a trip, Miss Mabel?”

Mabel looked up quickly, closing the book furtively as if she were planning something forbidden. It was Percy, the second eldest Wyndham; she breathed a small sigh of relief in her old-fashioned gown. He had been, she found, a quiet port in a storm of noise and they were free to converse easily, given that he was already engaged to a girl from Rutland called Flora, who had a titled father and a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.

“I’m trying to see what route my brother might take on his way back from the Indies,” she proclaimed with a confidence he admired. “I’m attempting to calculate when he should return to port.”

He walked over to where she was sitting, placing himself comfortably on the chair opposite, turning the atlas around and studying it carefully. Mabel eyed him curiously, he was quite handsome close up, and he smelled like pomade and cologne; he was fairly tall with a broad build, a large spread of a man with a smile that filled his whole face. He smiled often, grinning at her from across the room when she ended up caught in conversation with his mother, or a small wry smile, like the one this evening, when she gave his sisters a thorough drubbing after she had overheard them calling her unfashionable, he had looked at her as if he was terribly amused. She liked the feeling of camaraderie that it gave her, an ally in an enemy camp. He glanced up, she noticed that he had a faint scar above his left eye, she wondered where it was from.

“Surely you have already heard word from your brother regarding his approximate arrival at Yarmouth.” 

“I have,” she muttered. “I am simply impatient to see him.”

He observed her carefully; there was a little crease that appeared on her forehead as she concentrated, focusing intently on the map of the continents, the trade routes between the Caribbean and their very own sceptred isle.

“When is he due back on land?” Percy knew that James Darcy was set to arrive four days hence, mentally he had calculated how long she had left as the family houseguest. “Do you require me to accompany you to Cromer? I have business there this Thursday week.”

She looked up at him hesitantly, and then back to the page. She couldn’t concentrate when he was so very close, her focus became blurry around the edges.

“I am not aware of any preparations that have been made,” she said politely. “You will need to ask your father to speak to my companion.”

He smiled up at her, “well, that’s decided then.” Marking out the quickest plot with the sharp brass compass, he wrote down the numbers quickly on the border of the page, “I will take you …and from my jottings here, I am fairly sure that your brother will arrive home on time.” She checked his sums, and once in agreement with them she nodded her approval.

Percy got up from his seat, and gently placed his hand on her shoulder, giving it the vaguest hint of a squeeze.

“Once more unto the breach, dear Mabel,” he smiled forlornly as he grabbed a book from the shelf and wandered back towards the cackling and laughter emanating from downstairs.

She watched as he stepped out of the book room, waited for the gentle click of the door signalling his departure and finally breathed. Percy Wyndham made Mabel Darcy feel nervous, and she didn’t know why.

*

The coach clattered along the coast to Cromer; a short distance of two and a half miles. Mrs Sedgwick, sitting next to Percy Wyndham, observed the young pair closely. Mabel had dressed her hair up high upon her head, a cupcake tier of curls adorned with bows and clips – the young girl acting as ladies maid at Felbrigg finally attending to her – and she was wearing the new dress and jacket that had been sent up from London the day before by her mother. It was the deepest emerald green, trimmed with accents of gold and there were little peacocks embroidered into it in a vibrant, blue thread. Eleanor thought that Mabel looked entirely beautiful, and she could tell that the Wyndham boy thought the same. She glanced over, her charge looked nervous as she gazed out of the window, fiddling with her kid gloves, constantly opening and closing her purse.

And then there it was; the vast expanse of the water spread out before them – glittering and blue under the May sunshine, Mabel inadvertently rose to her feet, her hands on the edges of the barouche, her face looking outward towards the sea. She had never seen anything so marvellous and declared so with shrieks and giggles, as she turned to him and said that it was so perfectly wonderful. Percy watched her with delight, Lady Mabel was proving to be something else entirely. He wondered what it would be like to wrap his arms around her as they travelled together in the coach, to hold her hand in his and allay any uncertainties she may have; but he knew that any ideas he had in that respect would come to naught, his engagement to Flora had been publicly announced in The Times and she had already ordered her wedding trousseau. It was all too late.

Elizabeth was excited to see her second eldest son; she was wondering how he must have changed. She looked over at Darcy, currently reading the paper as best he could in the carriage.  He looked stern, the moustache he had grown did not sit comfortably on his face and resulted in him looking constantly angry, and he refused to wear his spectacles, which vexed her greatly. They were both excited to welcome James back to shore and Elizabeth personally could not wait to have all her children back on dry land and at Pemberley, even if only for a short while. She could smell the saltiness of the air, could hear the gentle caw of the gulls as they flew overhead. Darcy looked up from his paper and smiled at her, before reaching over and taking her hand in his own as the carriage pulled along, the rhythm of hooves clattering against the cobbles as they reached the coast.

 

The billiard balls clunked against each other and Darcy, firmly ensconced in the house at Cromer, realised that he was losing to his wife. His second eldest son laughed from the corner of the room as he watched his parents battling each other on smooth green baize.

“Lizzy,” he walked around to where she was standing as she studied her next move. “What do you suggest we do about the Wyndham boy.”

James rose to his feet, taking a long drag of the cigar, a deep gulp of the port. “It’s obvious to anyone concerned that Mabel has a great affection for him”

“Obvious to everyone except your sister,” Elizabeth said as she shot for a cannon and missed. “I don’t think she even comprehends the idea that her behaviour towards him is inappropriate.”

Darcy eyed up his cue ball, hitting it will a firm precision and potting the red. “How can she fail to see it?”

“Do you mean the affection or the impropriety, Father?” James had been away at sea too long to continue to call Darcy ‘papa’, but he was enjoying spending time with the man whose adventurous spirit he had inherited.

“Oh, I don’t know!” He snapped as the ball bounced off the edges of the pocket.

Elizabeth stood with her cue in her hand like an African tribeswoman, “I think both go together, but I don’t think Mabel would do anything to purposely cause offence to anyone.”

“Mother,” James placated. “You are being rather generous in that assertion, my sister is not a fool.”

“No,” she sighed. “But she is a young woman in love, and people in love do very silly things with little regard for the opinion of others.”

“Elizabeth,” Darcy turned to face his wife, “she has been walking through town accompanied by a gentleman she is not related to. You cannot compare that to anything else.”

“I can compare it to my sister running away to marry without the consent of our father.”

“That was different,” he dismissed her with a wave of the hand, she hated it when he did that.

“It was the same, Fitzwilliam,” she used his Christian name very rarely, only when she was cross.

“Aunt Lydia ended up marrying Wickham though,” James said, downing his port, feeling as if had come home and walked straight into the pages of a dramatic novel.

“At great cost!” Darcy walked over and poured himself a large brandy. The financial implication of arranging the marriage of Lydia Bennet and George Wickham had cost him greatly, but the money was not the issue with Mabel.

Elizabeth leaned over and lined up the ball; striking with precision she scored a cannon, two more points for a win. She looked over at her husband gleefully.

James clapped loudly, “oh well done, Mama!”

Darcy rolled his eyes as his wife placed the cue ball back on the table. He was scared for Mabel; Percy Wyndham was protected by his engagement, his daughter had nothing to protect her but her name. Any hint of impropriety or loss of virtue would mean that despite her dowry and her connections, Mabel would be cut from society, would never find a man to marry. He looked over at his wife, who had just potted the winning shot.

“I think we both know what needs to be done, Darcy,” Elizabeth placed her hand on his shoulder, and he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “We have to separate them as soon as possible before there is further deepening of this affection.”

He looked down at his wife, downed his brandy and then directed his address to his son. The boy who he had thrown up in the air giggling gleefully on the lawn at Pemberley was now a man; made deep golden by the sunshine, he was tall and broad and although his countenance was very much like Darcy’s own, he could sense his wife’s lightness and humour dappled across the boys personality like sunshine.

“James,” he said firmly. “You will take Mabel back to Pemberley tonight.”

“Tonight? But I…” He started to protest, he had already made plans with a delicious red-haired girl from the inn with a lovely smile and a welcoming bosom, but one look at his father’s stern expression made him nod in agreement. “Of course,” James clipped his cigar. “I will ask Fielding to prepare the coach at once.”

Elizabeth stood and looked at her husband as James left the room.

“She will hate you for this,” she said as held his hand tightly in her own. “Are you prepared for the wrath of Mabel Anne Darcy?”

He sighed, poured himself another brandy. “She will thank me for it soon enough,” he lamented, “when Percy Wyndham is married to another and she only has a faded collection of poems and sketches to look back on.”

“I don’t think Mabel would succumb to such a flirtation as easily as you think.”

“We have filled her head with tales of romantic love for too long…”

“Ours was not a typical courtship...”

“No, but I was not engaged to another,” Darcy stood to look out at the dark waves crashing against the beach below. “If only she had met Percy first, I would have no qualms about…”

He was interrupted by the slamming of the door, the screech as Mabel pounded into the room with a face like an incoming storm.

“How dare you decide what is best for me!” She yelled directly at her father, running towards him, pounding her fists into his chest.

 He held her wrists tightly, restrained her, shouted, “do you have any idea what you are doing, Mabel?”

“I am following my heart,” she shouted back, matching him in tone and volume, “I am doing what you did!”

Elizabeth ran over to try and envelop her daughter in her arms, to calm and sooth her as she had done so many times before but was pushed back.

‘You are both hypocrites,” the girl screamed. ‘You want me to do as you say and not as you did.’

She looked at Darcy, he was furious; his brow furrowed with anger, his teeth bared.

“That was different!” Darcy screamed back at her. “Your Mother was not engaged to another, she was free to marry me! I didn’t care for her status, her lack of wealth. I loved her!”

“Pfft! What do you even know about love?” She spat the words out in anger. “If you loved me then you would want me to be happy! But instead I have to do as I am bloody well told.”

Darcy recoiled at this, everything he did was for his family; to ensure the continuation of their good fortune,

“I do want you to be happy, that is why I am doing this!”

“If you wanted me to be happy, you would let me be with whom I choose!”

It was a battle of wills; each Darcy equally matched, each as determinedly stubborn as the other.

“You cannot be with someone who is promised to another…has he said he would break the engagement with this girl?” He looked at her face for confirmation, finding nothing. “He cannot break the engagement with Flora, they have been betrothed since they were children. It’s not something that happens very often now, so I understand why it confuses you” His voice softened as he saw the sadness cross her face. “Percy has to marry her. He has no choice.”

“But what about me?” She cried plaintively, “I come from a better family, I have a bigger dowry… why can’t he marry me instead? Could you talk to his father? Surely, Papa, surely there is something you could do.”

“This is not how the world works, my dearest Mabel, you know there is naught I can do,” he wiped the tears from her cheek, his heart was breaking for her, ‘if I could resolve this for you, you know I would. You are so precious to me, it pains me to see you suffer so greatly.’

Mabel stared at her father, tears streaming down her face, she struggled for a moment and then with her last fighting breath, “but I love him!”

She fell to the floor; defeated, deflated. Her heart was aching, her stomach wrenched into knots.

“Will I be able to say goodbye?” Her voice was a whisper, her fight gone.

“You cannot see him again,” he said, holding her close. “But if you need to you may write a letter and I will ensure he gets it.”

Darcy sat with this daughter on the sofa at the edge of the room, pulling her in close, he held her tightly, stroking her brow, listening to her sobs and protestations. Even so, she knew that leaving Cromer was the best thing, she wasn’t one of the silly girls from her books, she was Mabel Darcy and she aware of her responsibilities to her father and her family. Norfolk had been a glorious escape from Pemberley and Grosvenor Square and Milford Lodge; she had felt free, uncaged, let herself fall head over heels in love with a man who was practically married to another. It was frivolous and foolish, and it would be her great regret.

 

Mabel and James climbed into the coach as the clock struck ten that night, the roads were smooth, and the sea air was cold on her shoulders. She had left the letter on the dresser, asking her mother to ensure that it was delivered after they had departed. The coach trundled through the narrow streets, the smell of salt and sand clinging to her pelisse. Mabel nestled into her brother’s arm and he comforted her with tales of the Caribbean and ships, until he could see the faintest hint of a smile on her face.

It would take a while, James thought, until she overcame this loss, but she would be alright, Darcys always were. His commanding officer said he was like a cat, always landed on his feet, and Mabel was the same. In the meantime, ‘The Wyndham Woes’, as the brothers Darcy were referring to it, distracted him from the news he needed to tell his father; all about his life in Port Royal and the Catalan woman with the sweet smile and kind heart who had made him a Papa.

Darcy would never know about the small exotic offshoot of his family line in Jamaica. The following year the HMS Envoy would hit a rocky outcrop off the coast at Cartagena, sinking beneath the waves with all souls on board lost. Penniless and alone, Mrs James Darcy would be turned out of the house on the harbour, returning to her homeland with nothing but the three tiny girls with olive skin and almond shaped eyes; they had Spanish that rolled off the tongue and would forever be unaware of their heritage.

Percy Wyndham received her words the following afternoon. He had never expected that she would agree to his plan to elope, but she had, kissing him at the end of the wooden jetty in Cromer as the waves crashed at their feet. He had never known that love could feel like this; there had been the wenches at the whorehouse who had pleasured him and make him shudder with delight, and the girls of his youth who had flattered his ego and pleased his eye, but Mabel had been something else entirely and he hadn’t understood it, would never understand it now because she was gone, leaving him to his fate.


	44. Lizzy

Imogen Penelope Darcy had hair the colour of wheat and eyes as blue as the July sky she was born under, she was of such a pleasant temperament that she delighted everyone she met – she would dance across the state rooms at Pemberley during the Duke’s Christmas visit, her little voice singing a song by Elton John as she twirled next to the ten foot tall Christmas tree as her mother watched proudly and various members of staff clapped and took photos of Lady Isobel beaming widely and curtseying on their disposable cameras. As she grew older, family members commented on how much she looked like her great-grandma Millicent; Imogen, who had only ever seen the faded colour photographs of a grumpy old lady dressed in buttoned down jackets and starched hats, was immediately offended by this until her sister Lizzy took her to see the portrait everyone was referring to. Imogen, only just eleven and a gangly, tall, girl, could not see how she even resembled the magnificent creature in the portrait before her. Painted when Millicent had been in her late twenties and done by a respected society artist, Imogen could not see how her own lip pouted in the same way – the gentle crease of the cupids bow on her top lip – her hands, long and tapered were almost the same, she could see that, but it was only when she squinted her eyes and tilted her head that she saw a face that resembled her own. It was the eyes, she thought. Most of the Darcys had slate grey eyes, which could be cold and dull, but Imogen had eyes like sapphires that sparkled even when she was sad, and everyone commented on how she was the least Darcy-like of all of Winston’s grandchildren.

“Can you see it now, Imo?” Lizzy asked softly, as the two Darcy girls sat on the carpet in front of the painting, blocking the pathway for any paying guests.

“Yes,” she nodded, still transfixed by the image of the Lady Darcy dressed in soft blue satin and posing against a table. Her hair was the colour of a harvest field, a glittering shard of diamonds pinned through her curls; her lips painted red, her hands long and tapered, the embroidered sheer of her dress clinging gently to the curve of her back.

“Here,” Lizzy handed her sister a soft blue velvet box. “This is for you, I thought you would like it.”

Imogen opened it to find a delicate silver band with a pearl in the centre, two small diamonds on either side. She pulled it from the box, held it up to look at it in greater detail. She slipped it on her finger and found it fit her perfectly.

“It belonged to great-grandma; we thought it was time it had a new owner. Look at the picture.,” Lizzy smiled, watching her younger sister recognise that the ring on her own finger was the same one gracing the hand of Lady Millicent in the ninety-year-old oil painting.  Imogen beamed and hugged her sister tightly, maybe she was more Darcy than everyone thought.

 

Lizzy sat by her sister’s bedside in the private room of the Chelsea and Westminster hospital. It had been early morning when she had reached London, Benn walking her to the ward before sadly leaving her at the door, holding her tight as if trying to fill her with courage. She felt guilt, so much guilt for not talking to her sister as much, for not making the effort. It had been easy to watch Imogen go off the rails, especially when she seemed to have so much fun doing it, but now as she looked at the pale face of the young girl, she wondered that if maybe all the times Imogen looked as if she was enjoying the rollercoaster ride that was her life, she was merely white-knuckled, clinging onto the safety bar, petrified of falling out.

Her hair was a ratty bleached blonde and even though her face had been cleaned, traces of eyeliner remained in the corner of her eyes. There was a tattoo of a bee on her wrist, which was new. Lizzy found herself studying Imogen as she waited for any sign of movement, any sign of normalcy that would signal to her that this was all going to be okay, but she had been there for nearly twelve hours now and there had been no change. Hugh had been in and out of the room all day, Carol hysterical; and it was all a waiting game now. Wishing and hoping and praying that everything was going to be alright, because if it wasn’t, it would be the end.

Imogen was in a white room, she felt weightless and free. Ahead of her was a bright light, but there was a noise behind her. It sounded like music, a tune that she could recognise but couldn’t quite remember… there was the faint sound of piano keys being hit and she followed it, as she did the room became grey, became black and there was darkness.

She could hear the words, could hear them ever so softly… ‘Lying here with no one near…’ They became louder now – ‘Only you and you can hear me…’ She recognised the voice, it was the soft northern voice that she loved – ‘when I say softly, slowly…’

As she fell into the voice, there was a rush of weight and heaviness and she coughed loudly, choking now…struggling…couldn’t breathe… noises, voices, beeps, shouts, light, alive, sounds, smells… air – breath – gasp!

Tiny Dancer.


	45. Sophia - 1693

Lady Sophia Clarendon-Darcy sat in the corner of the Stag Parlour, the fire was raging in the large hearth and filling the room with an overpowering heat. Seething with anger, she tapped her foot on the edge of the window seat in the corner of the room where she had been placed to prevent her causing trouble; at the table her brother Cyril, her father George and the Cheshire Gentlemen, a small group of local landowners loyal to the former King James II, were gathered amidst smoke and ale, discussing their plan to restore the deposed Monarch to the throne in loud, bellowing voices which belied the secrecy of their very treasonous plotting. Sophia, mother of two Royal bastards, was a key part of this plan – indeed it was her very own idea to force action on behalf of the rightful King and legitimise her own children as his successors. Edmund and Richard, strong healthy boys, resided in the country – too precious to be kept close to the park at Pemberley, or even at her house in town. Even though they had been officially recognised as sons of the King, being given the name Fitzroy and the titles of Earls of Bentinck and Struthers, their position under the rule of William of Orange was tenuous, especially given his wife’s own inability to provide the country with a Protestant heir. The Darcys themselves were staunch Catholics, but also staunch Royalists, and this most recent of developments had caused problems.

Sophia understood the risks that were being taken on behalf of her children, understood that any hint of conspiracy or intrigue could result in the children simply disappearing. She sat in the corner, her mother’s Darcy Pearls pendant sparkling at her neck and her grey eyes incandescent with rage. She was listening to these silly men prattle on about their plans to raise armies, about their plans to smuggle the King into the country and march down to London to reclaim the throne. It was all so foolish. If they were going to be successful then they would have to be a little be cleverer with their plotting, or all of them would end up in the Tower, with nothing but a swift, merciless death ahead of them.

“Surely,” she stated loudly enough to be heard, but not loudly enough to command the room as the chatter of twelve raucous gentlemen used to ignoring the voices of their wives continued to dominate the walls of the small parlour. Marching over to the fireplace and picking up a poker, she banged on the floor three times, “Gentlemen, Gentlemen, Gentlemen! I beg your attention, please do not do the mother of the focus of your endeavour such an injustice.”

The men in the room began to quieten until Percival Warner, the lord of the manor that abutted their own to the north began to gripe about her even being included in the meeting.

“It is called the Cheshire Gentlemen, not the Cheshire Gentlemen and their Errant Daughters. This is simply the point which I am trying to make, albeit not as eloquently as I would like.” He leaned over to Henry Danvers, who was sitting next to him and began to laugh. The laughter began to spread around the room like wildfire until Sophia, furious and red-faced, screamed for them to be silent.

“How dare you have the presumption that you can use my children as figureheads for your futile exercise, whilst at the same time demeaning anything that I may have to say.” She spat out the words, as the room fell to quiet and the assembly attended to her every word. “I may not be a gentleman, but I am the daughter of a Duke and as such I outrank most of you here. Do you fail to see that the arrogance of your sex is what will eventually be your downfall?”

“We are hear to discuss the action we are going to take, Lady Clarendon, and not sentimentalise your love affair with the King,” quipped Robert Piers, a local landowner who would have been quite handsome, excepting the large scar on his right cheek which he had received in a less than honourable duel.

“As you know, Mr Piers, I was the accepted Mistress of the King at court, holding a position that you probably wouldn’t recognise if it slashed your other cheek,” she looked at him pointedly. Men like Piers forgot that she could hold her own at court, that she wouldn’t be bullied and subjugated like their own wives.

“As far as I am aware, Lady Clarendon, we are all fully aware of the ‘position’ that you held at court and your ability to sire Royal bastards does not make your attendance here necessary.”

George Darcy, the most senior man in the room rose to his feet and walked over to his daughter. He leaned over and whispered into her ear, “madame, you need to leave this room now, you are doing none of us any good.”

Sophia leaned back and looked into her father’s eyes, they were exactly like her own and she could see the spark of fire in them. He was an old man now, but still fighting inside for what he believed to be right. George firmly believed that James was the rightful King of England, as he had believed that Charles was for all those years of fighting in the War or struggling in exile. There were risks in what he was doing, he was aware of that, but he did not contend with the idea that a god-anointed King could be usurped or replaced.

Sophie curtseyed to her father before stomping through to the Drawing Room where the rest of the ladies were in attendance. She took a seat by the window, looking out onto the north front range of Pemberley, the beacons were lit – illuminating the circular driveway and the men below, who were preparing the coaches for departure. A year later she would watch helplessly from the same spot as four messengers and twenty-one Dutch troopers marched into the house to arrest her father for High Treason. He was escorted to await trial in London, his place of imprisonment would be the Tower; as he was taken over London Bridge he could see the spiked heads of Henry Danvers, Robert Piers and Percival Warner looking down on him with ominous, grisly faces.


	46. Lizzy

Lizzy had been in London for forty-eight hours, living out of her bag and eating food snaffled from the tea trolley or ice-cold sandwiches from the vending machine on the third floor. The afternoon after Imogen woke up, Hugh had relieved his eldest daughter from her vigil and she had journeyed over to the flat on Upper Grosvenor Street which had, at one time, been part of the house owned by Jane Bingley’s sister in law, Mrs Hurst. Carol Darcy, once so proud of her London pied-de-terre, had wasted no time in removing the most valuable pieces of art and furniture and the result was an empty shell of a house, filled with spaces where the pieces that made it a home once stood. Joe, nearly eighteen, was still boarding at Eton – his free time full of ski trips to Courchevel with his friends, or golfing at St Andrews - and so had luckily missed out on the drama of his parents’ divorce.

Lizzy walked around the house with sadness; although she hadn’t had the best relationship with her stepmother, she always enjoyed her time here – especially at Christmas, when they would ship in their elaborate meal from Fortnum and Mason, ending with a massive flaming Christmas pudding and custard. Later Hugh, Lizzy, Imogen, Joe and Harriet would spend the afternoon be-socked and laughing on the couch as they watched Morecambe & Wise, whilst Carol and Aunty Julia got drunk off the rest of the brandy that had been destined for the dessert.

The afternoon had been spent making phonecalls to work – asking Deb to reschedule her diary, send out the final drafts of documents that were on her desk and pull out all of the receipts that were in the tin. Harriet had been remarkably resilient and, after the initial shock of what had happened, had dealt with things admirably. She was staying with her Dad at the Alveston and enjoying the last few days of the half term, although missing her mum as could be understood.

Benn had sent messages as often as the shooting schedule allowed and her phone pinged with random cat pictures and videos, or stupid selfies of him at Pemberley, which he thought would cheer her up. He had been right, they had, and in the first few days when everything was unclear, she had messaged him back with words of appreciation, and every night they had poured out their hearts to each other over the mobile network. It was nice, she thought, having someone batting for your team. It hadn’t been something she had experienced before – both Matthew and David had been married, had other things that took up their time and emotional resources, but she found that Benn was deliciously all hers. It was so wonderful that she wondered how long it could possibly last. 

On the seventh day, there had been a parcel for her waiting with Malcolm, the friendly faced concierge at the flat – it had obviously been hand wrapped and contained a box of those hideously expensive macarons she loved, a soft grey cashmere cardigan and a little enamel brooch of a bee, which she immediately adored. She had smiled as she had read the card and later, when the consultant was speaking to Imogen and her dad, she stood in the hospital corridor and phoned him to say thank you. He had sounded concerned on the phone, told her how much he wanted to be there to support her and make sure she was alright. She told him she was okay, and that hugs were most definitely required. He laughed softly, before agreeing that he would have happily acquiesced to her request. It was his last day on set, but he was flying straight out to the US on the redeye flight to screentest for a big budget action film with a famous director who had specifically asked for him. She was so excited for him; texting over a list of American sweets that he needed to bring her back. He was there for a month, but they arranged to meet in London the day his flight landed.

“Will you be standing at the gate waiting for me with a sign?” He said it jokingly, but seriously would have loved for her to be standing there with her bee shoes and mischievous smile.

“Only if you promise not to judge my terrible sign-making skills and poor lettering!”

“Of course not, as long as you’re there I won’t have any issue with your bubble writing. I have to warn you though, Miss Lizzy,” he said with mock sternness, “I will be removing my sideburns.”

“Oh, no!!” She laughed for the first time in a week, “I might have to rethink this whole thing.”

He had laughed too and then in a low growl said, “you had better not, you cannot even begin to imagine the things I want to do to you.”

She had felt herself blush and was glad that he was two hundred miles away, so he couldn’t see her face turn pink.

“Surely it all depends on the effects of the sideburn removal on whether or not I permit you to do such things,” she teased him, matching his low voice with one of her own.

“Christ alive, Lizzy, you sound like the Cadbury’s Caramel bunny when you do that… Do you even know what you are doing to me right now?”

“I could tell you what I want to do to you,” she murmured, hiding her face from the nurses rushing past her, “but I don’t think it would be appropriate preparation for your scene, do you?”

Benn was standing alone in the porch at Pemberley, the only place where he could get reception, wrapped up against the cold and licking a lolly, which had replaced his previously ever-present e-cig as he slowly weaned himself off it.

“Hahaha, most definitely not!”

He regretted the time that they were spending apart already, wished he could have cancelled the meeting over in California; all he wanted to do was spend the autumn afternoons bundled up with her against the cold, walking around the parkland, drinking hot chocolate, laughing and kissing and…

“Anyway, changing the subject before I have to do some serious reworking of my breeches…” A runner walked past, using her clipboard to cover up the fact she had overheard the conversation.  “I’m filming the Lady Catherine scene next with - ”

“Oh my god, JEMIMA LANCASTER!!!”

Lizzy had been so pleased with she had heard that one of her favourite actresses was playing the part of Lady Catherine De Bourgh; she had loved and admired Jemima Lancaster since she was little.

“Yes,” he sighed. “I know you are a bit devastated about not getting to meet her.”

“Please will you get her autograph for me?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

He sighed again, this time louder and she giggled down the phone imagining his face in a frown.

“I cannot believe that you are making me do this.”

“I’m not making you do it, you’re doing it willingly.” She giggled down the phone, “I will make it worth your while...”

“You better had…”

“I promise,” she purred down the phone.

The frowning runner came toddling towards him and he knew that his time was up, “I have to go, but I will call you before the flight, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And Lizzy…”

“Yes, Benn.”

“I miss you.”

He could hear her smiling down the phone as she said, “miss you too.”

 

Later, as she sat in the uncomfortable chair in the stiflingly hot room, watching dreadful television with her dad and sister, pulling on her t-shirt that was clinging and making her feel self-conscious, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.

BENN: At Heathrow now, getting zoomed through the gate to First Class (free upgrade!) Traffic awful on the M25 and running late. Will let you know when I land – don’t worry, I remembered your list. Can’t promise to buy Twinkies. xx

BENN: Couldn’t get an autograph – thought this would be better?

There was a video attached and she opened it, it started playing immediately, the picture jittery and blurry. For someone who had spent the majority of his adult life on filmsets, Benn Williams was absolutely rubbish at using the camera on his phone. The image stabilised somewhat, and she squinted at the screen.

“So, I would like you to meet Lady Elizabeth Darcy – she couldn’t be here today, but she will be on the other end of this message,” Benn boomed out in his Mr Darcy voice, which was much grander and deeper than his own.

The screen panned around, and Jemima Lancaster appeared perfectly costumed as Lady Catherine De Bourgh. She spoke in the way that Lizzy always imagined the great lady spoke when reading the letters sent between Darcy and Elizabeth documenting their various encounters with her.

“Lady Elizabeth,” she said in a perfectly condescending tone, “if one is to believe what one has been told you have asked my nephew, Fitzwilliam, to procure my signature for what I can only assume is some dreadful reason only enjoyed by ladies of lower social standing. One will not tolerate such behaviour from such an unfeeling, selfish girl!”

“I’m afraid, Lady Elizabeth, that my aunt is quite determined!”

He looked up at Jemima who was now smiling, all traces of Lady Catherine removed from her face.

“Hello Lizzy, wish you could have been here… I was so looking forward to your behind the scenes tour!  But I promise that we will have a gin together at the after party… that is if this darling man here lets you out of his sight, I think you might have a keeper here! Mwah!”

Jemima Lancaster waved and blew kisses at the camera, until it flashed back to Benn who gave her a thumbs up before waving.

BENN: Well, you said you would make it worth my while… :D xx


	47. Elizabeth - 1858

The paper was slippery, the ink was thickened by the cold weather of the winter months and he found that it flowed slowly from the nib of his pen. The office at the front of the house was warm, heated by the fire that spitted and crackled, throwing out the scent of woodsmoke and covering the books on the shelves closest to it in a fine layer of dust that was swept away once a day by one of their many housemaids. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of his wife that was painted a few months after they wed; he could remember the day so vividly, she had worn a simple yellow dress made from a daintily embroidered muslin that had been part of her wedding trousseau, as she posed for the Italian artist in the drawing room of their house in Grosvenor Square. He would have gladly paid for a grander selection of gowns but found that his new bride had chosen a modest selection of fabrics and dresses, all of which she looked beautiful in, and all of which he loved taking her out of.

Thinking back to those first heady days of marriage, he could remember the scent of violet and bergamot – it was a fragrance that could immediately take him back to dancing with her on the front lawn, falling about laughing on the soft grass, lying there with her nestled in the crook of his arm looking up at the stars over Pemberley as they twinkled and shone in the night sky. A soft chuckle escaped from him as he continued to write his letter, thinking of those summer afternoons where they drank their fill and danced the dances of their youth on the grass, much to the hilarity of their children who would watch, laughing and teasing from the balcony.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was an old man now, nearly seventy-eight, and his hands – once firm and full of strength – were now mottled with spots of age and wrinkled more than his vanity liked. Even though his fingers were still agile enough to complete the letter despite the thickness of the ink, they ached with the fatigue of holding the quill so tightly. Elizabeth was always waiting for him in the drawing room, reading, or perhaps teaching their granddaughter how to play her instrument most ill, and then they took supper together in the intimacy of the stag parlour as they did every night when not entertaining. He had always been amazed at how much a look from her across the room thrilled him, how he loved to argue and debate with her on issues, still trusted her more than anyone else in the world and those fine eyes still shone brighter than any star in the sky.

The Darcys had grown up holding each other’s hands – he had been the proud, arrogant gentleman, still fumbling around with insecurity and the weight of the greatest of expectations; she had been the impertinent Hertfordshire Miss whose main defect was to wilfully misunderstand everyone, but together they were an unstoppable force; an ideal match of love and intellect. There had been many triumphs in their marriage; his foresight to invest in the railway line that now ran across the northern edge of his estate had meant that the family coffers had continued to grow and, more importantly, had resulted in the family Dukedom being reinstated by the young Queen in a simple ceremony that took place with very little pomp at St James’s Palace. Darcy smiled when he thought of how his Aunt would have reacted at having to call his wife ‘your Grace’. Lady Catherine De Bourgh was long gone now, but he suspected that the thought of it alone was enough to make her turn in her grave.

They had outlived them all, the final characters left standing – Darcy and Elizabeth still living out their story in the house in Derbyshire. Charles and Jane had been gone a while now, passing out of this world within a few months of each other, leaving a family of seven children and twenty grandchildren at the last count; Georgiana, his wonderful sister joined their parents shortly after her fiftieth birthday, she had lived a joy-filled life with Henry, adding five children to their family, including her youngest son, who was named Darcy after his Uncle. Mr Collins had predeceased Mr Bennet, dropping down dead in the middle of a sermon during the Sunday service. His widow Charlotte went on to marry a gentleman recently returned from the navy, kept a happy home in Surrey, and gave birth to three healthy boys – none of whom would inherit Longbourn, which had been absorbed into his own estates upon the death of Mr Bennet after no other suitable male heir was to be found and Darcy purchased it.

Sitting in his leather chair, he found it harder to see the words that he had already written on the paper; he hated how his body was failing him now, his mind was as sharp and alert as it had always been, but he found that he ached more, struggled to walk and drag his old bones around the house that he loved. Outside the snow was getting deeper, covering the circle of lawn in the centre of the forecourt with its obliterating whiteness. Mainly driven by the coldness that was pervading the room as the fire died down to embers, he finished his letter, folded it, sealed it with wax and placed it carefully in his drawer with a grand finality. He took out his pocket watch, the rounded gold timepiece that had been in the family for years, broken and worn Elizabeth had seen to it that it was repaired as a birthday gift over twenty years ago now. Engraved with the family motto, it now ticked away in the pocket of his waistcoat; measuring its own heartbeat in time with his. Time would allow him a chance to ride up to Cage Hill before dinner despite the weather; the power of his horse enabling him to forget the frailty of his own wretched human condition as it thundered to the summit.

Darcy slowly began his ascent up the north stairs; the cold wind penetrating the draughty house and spiralling up the staircase behind him and he felt icy to his core, unable to shake the chill which was enveloping his body and taking his breath away. He took a moment to admire the portraits, the artefacts and the objects they had lovingly collected in their home; each item on display held a special memory, each portrait was of someone who was loved or had been loved by them. He crossed the landing, the welcoming sight of the grand staircase with the hand carved balustrade and the ornate plasterwork ceiling with the Darcy family escutcheon dominating the centre. He was taking it all in, as if he were viewing Pemberley for the first time; he walked towards the entrance hall, and felt lighter almost weightless, as he bounded down the small staircase and past the picture of Mary Darcy, which was hung there once more.

There was the first fleeting memory of his mother dancing in the hallway as she skipped along, holding his hands in her own, he could hear her gentle tinkling laughter and hear the noisy clack-clack of her pearl necklaces as they bounced up and down around her neck. He could hear his father’s voice, quiet but authoritative, teaching him how to play billiards and the gentle thud of the cue ball hitting the red, and in the distance, the sweet trill of his sister Georgiana singing and playing joyfully, loudly for all to hear. Amidst the music was the joyous sound of children’s giggles, Fitzwilliam, James, the loud thumps of youngsters running towards him. His memories were becoming cloudy in his mind now, as if he was desperately trying to remember a dream, but he couldn’t quite grasp it in his hands. There was a light now, brighter than anything he had ever seen before, and a warmth that filled him from his boots up.

Elizabeth had been writing a letter to Mabel when Staughton came into the room, a sad look on his face. She didn’t know that the horse would slip and fall, throwing her husband from his seat with a reckless abandon; couldn’t know that he fell and hit the large rock on Cage Hill with a thud; would never know that as he took his last breath he whispered her name.

Wax splattered across the letter that would never be sent; her seal fell from her hand and dropped to the floor, the metal separating from the wood. She followed it to the ground.


	48. Lizzy

Imogen was discharged back to the house in Upper Grosvenor Street a few days later, but it had been decided that she should travel to Pemberley to stay with Lizzy for a few weeks. She never quite remembered the journey to Derbyshire taking as long as it did today. They were in her father’s Range Rover and not the hideous little yellow car that Lizzy always drove, and she struggled to keep her eyes open as they skirted off the M25 towards the north. Even when they stopped at the services at Newport Pagnell, she only requested a hot chocolate, which remained untouched and resting in the cupholder. Her sister was sitting in the front, talking to their dad in quietened tones, occasionally leaning over her shoulder and looking at her with a look of concern that she found slightly comforting. She was being taken to Derbyshire to recover – well, that was what they said, it felt more like she was being exiled to the countryside to pay penance for her sins. Out of the window of the car, the world got hillier and she only woke again when they juddered over the cattlegrid and crossed the bridge over the railway line that Fitzwilliam Darcy paid for.

As they pulled up to the north front gate, given special leave by Don to do so, she was bundled out of the car and up the backstairs to the small flat at the top of the house, where she would live with her sister and her niece until she was better. ‘Better’ – what a strange concept, she thought, lying on the bed in Lizzy’s spare room, which had been hastily made up for her. She couldn’t explain to anyone why she had done what she did, didn’t even want to talk about it in case it brought back those feelings of loneliness and despair. Imogen was not quite twenty, but she felt as if she had led so many lives now that she wasn’t sure who she was anymore, but she knew that it had been the voice of her sister that had reminded her that life wasn’t quite done with her yet and she was curious to see what fate had in store.

Imogen had had never realised that actual things of importance had happened at Pemberley, apart from Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, obviously. Bundled up in hats and gloves, and with cups of hot chocolate from the café, they were walking around the grounds – blowing off the winter cobwebs, as Lizzy called it – and getting to know each other properly. For the first few days Imogen had felt self-conscious in the flat with her niece, who was not much younger than she was, who eyed her with awkward suspicion one minute and a strange pitying look the next. They had bonded over a teen-based foreign language series on Netflix that they found one night when neither could sleep, and now infuriated Lizzy by swearing at each other in Norwegian and leaving foundation all over the bathroom sink.

“So, what happened to Sophia Darcy?” Imogen asked as they walked down into the Killtime Ravine, “I have never really heard about her before.”

 “No-one really talks about her because of what happens next…” Harriet paused for dramatic effect, pleased to have the attention of a captive audience. “George gets arrested, goes to the Tower, and they don’t let anyone visit him.” She looked at Imogen who was totally engrossed in the story and nodding along, her blue eyes wide as saucers and her mouth gaping open ever so slightly resulting in her looking like a very glamourous goldfish. “And then… they let him go.”

“Just like that? I thought you were going to say that they cut his head off or something. Placed it on a pike on London Bridge.” She pulled a funny face and then laughed. Harriet thought it was nice to hear her laugh.

“What they did was much worse than that, I think,” Harriet said sadly. She hated the way that Sophia had been vilified and all but removed from the family history page in the Pemberley guidebook.

“Why? What did they do?” Imogen was genuinely interested in what Harriet was telling her and, secretly, she couldn’t wait until the house was open, so she could go and have a look at all these rooms that she kept mentioning.

“When she was younger, she had grown up at Court, was like a sister to Princess Mary and Princess Anne – they wrote to each other all the time and loved each other a lot. When Mary became Queen –

“Mary was married to… William?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “When William and Mary became King and Queen they sent Anne to her own court out of town, where they let her get on with it. The sisters never really reconciled, and Mary died young with no children. When William got ill he recognised Anne as his heir and that’s where she got a bit power hungry.”

“Right, I’m confused now… What has this got to do with Sophia?”

“Sophia had two children by Anne’s dad,” Harriet pulled a face. “I mean, my friend Summer’s dad is fairly good looking… for a Dad anyway… but can you imagine having your best friend’s dad’s kids? Grim!”

 “Yeah, so that is pretty gross… what did they do to Sophia? You still haven’t told me!”

“Anne summoned Sophia to Court and took her children into her own protective custody.”

“She took her children? You can’t do that!” Imogen was positively horrified.

“You have to remember that then children were sent away all the time and didn’t really see their parents until they were returned as fully functioning members of society.” Harriet looked at Imogen pointedly. “Anyway, it gets worse.”

“How can it possibly get worse? They’ve taken her children and thrown her dad in prison!”

“Have you ever wondered why Mr Darcy is just Mr Darcy and not the Duke of Derbyshire like Grandad is?”

“No, H. I have never wondered that.”

Harriet rolled her eyes at Imogen, who was obviously freezing despite the expensive and fashionable coat. They were walking back up the ravine now, heading towards the Dutch Gardens and their elegant symmetry. The air was cold around Pemberley today and Harriet was glad that she had worn an extra pair of socks.

“Anne didn’t punish the family by having George executed or doing anything so obvious, but she did take away the title from them. No more Dukes of Derbyshire, merely plain old Mr George Darcy.”

“Poor George!”

“They also had an attainder to pay, a huge amount of money -  the estate was virtually bankrupt, and we nearly lost Pemberley… it took ages before it was secured again.”

“What happened to Sophia?” Imogen had a face of genuine concern for this once lost but now found relative that she felt oddly akin to.

“She stayed here for a bit, but her position at court was untenable now she was at odds with the Queen,” Harriet took a sip of her coffee, “so she packed up her trunks and her jewels, managed to convince a gentleman of the Queen’s household in London to bring her children to her, and ran away to France.”

“What about Cyril? Did he live? Was he okay?”

“Imo, you know that he’s like our great great great great” she was counting them off on her fingers, “great great great great grandad, right?” Imogen nodded, enthralled. “He sold of portraits and furniture and he kept Pemberley safe.”

“What a terrible thing to have happened,” Imogen said in a mournful tone.

“Pemberley is full of amazing stories, you can’t walk into a room without stepping into some kind of historical drama,” Harriet raised her eyebrow to her Aunt as they walked under the garden arches and into the courtyard, where the cloisters gave them the merest hint of protection from the cold.

“Thank you for telling me,” Imogen said softly, “Dad never really shares stories from here. I never knew half of this stuff even happened.”

Harriet returned the smile and wrapped her arm around Imogen’s shoulder, she noticed that she was still painfully thin under the goosefeather coat, and whilst she looked okay if you saw her from a distance, it was only when you were close that you could see the dry patches on her skin, the bags under her eyes and the scars on her arms that she tried to hide with bracelets.

“We come from a very long line of amazing women – the guidebook will try and make it all about the men, but if you look closely you will see that Darcy women are all made of much stronger stuff,” she looked at Imogen pointedly, before giving her a meaningful hug. “Right, I’m off – college beckons.”

Harriet walked off in the direction of the north stairs, leaving Imogen alone in the courtyard. It was eleven o’clock and the house was opening for the day, the large doors at the top of the stone steps being pushed open as the sound of the centuries old bolts clanged around the walls. Imogen tentatively walked up the stairs, feeling in so many ways like she was walking in the footsteps of history. Was it these steps that Sophia Darcy had run down in her crackling satin gown, chasing the soldiers as they took her father away? Did Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy, with her fine eyes and rich husband, ever walk up these steps with her head in a book? She didn’t know right now, but she was determined to find out.

“Welcome back, Lady Imogen,” Graeme smiled. 

He had been one of the doormen at Pemberley since the HHS had taken over and she was sure she remembered his lovely warm voice and friendly face. Imogen walked through the door of the house and immediately knew that she had finally come home.

*

Benn Williams held the small velvet pouch in his hand, tucked inside the pocket of his trousers. It was something that he had bought that afternoon before from a small artisan store on the boardwalk at Venice Beach. November in California was something altogether different, he stood out like a sore thumb in his summer sandals and board shorts whilst the natives were wrapped up in sweaters and Uggs. There had been a few Paparazzo hanging about trying to get pictures, but they got bored once they realised that he wasn’t playing their game. He walked up to the small beach house, just off the main drag, which they had rented for the ‘views’ and that turned out to be small glimpse of the ‘Hollywood’ sign if you leaned to side and squinted.

Rosie was already in the kitchen, blending a mixture of Kale, Matcha and Spinach and proclaiming it the healthiest things ever. He liked Rosie Schaffer a lot, she was fun and so Cali that it made him laugh at her pretentiousness. They had worked together on a film two years ago called ‘Tempest Beloved’, which had been terrible and filmed in the worst conditions ever. She had protested to her agent about the lack of Vegan options and was laughed at every day by the catering team, who gave her plain rice and broccoli.

“Hey you, where ya been?” She poured him out a glass of green into a tall glass, he took a slurp and grimaced.

It was on the set of ‘Tempest Beloved’ that Rosie had met Yvette, Benn’s younger sister, and they had fallen madly and head over heels in love. They lived in the LA for most of the year but couldn’t commit to buying a home and raising a family here or selling up and moving to a farm in Minnesota like the one Rosie had grown up on. When she was drunk, which was rare, the change in her accent from neutral LA to deep St Cloud was something special to behold.

“Wandered about… what do you think of this?” He tipped the contents of the pouch onto the counter, Rosie picked up the necklace and held it up to the light; the copper pineapple pendant glittered at the end of it in the bright winter sunshine, the smooth chain slipping between her fingers.

“Is this for Miss Lizzy?” she said conspiratorially.

Rosie had watched over the last few months as Benn, still shaken and insecure from his divorce, had met, insulted, flattered, danced with and started to fall in love with Lizzy Darcy. On his first night in LA they had all gone out for dinner and she had seen the sparkle return to his eyes, the way he smiled when he spoke about the crazy aristocrat with the bumblebee shoes who made him laugh at himself and Yvette had shot her a look that she knew meant this was someone special.

Rosie had always felt guilty about the photographs that had ended Benn’s marriage. They had been caught unaware by a pap in a café in Soho, two days after Benn had returned home to his wife’s wedding ring in an envelope on the kitchen counter. The pictures had been published and the redtop rags had gone mad for the scandal. It didn’t matter that Madeleine moved to France with her lover, or that she admitted she was in the wrong; no, the only thing that had mattered was that Benn Williams had been seen talking intimately with his hot, young co-star, and that was enough.

“Yeah, do you think she will like it? I wasn’t sure, but I remember she told me this story about Mr Darcy and a pineapple – I thought it would be funny.” He looked so unsure and nervous about his choice of gift that she walked over and gave him a reassuring hug. Her head rested just under his six-foot frame and, superficially, they made an attractive couple.

“I am certain that she will adore it, why wouldn’t she?!”

“Women are strange creatures, Schaffer, you know this better than I do,” he said walking off in the direction of his bedroom to finish packing.

He was flying back home in four days time and he was excited to see Lizzy; he was counting down the hours, could feel the bubbles of anticipation dance across his stomach in waves. He couldn’t wait to whisk her away to the small hotel in the corner of the Cotswolds where he could spend the day listening to her laugh, kissing every inch of her and telling her how much he loved her.

*

Imogen returned up to the flat after being pandered and flattered and generally made to feel very special indeed. The ladies in the tea room had presented her with three tiers of cakes and sandwiches, and she could hear the whispers from behind the counter about ‘Little Lady Imogen’, who used to sing Crocodile Rock and twirl about the tables.  Imogen liked the way that people remembered her, how they had fixed her in their minds as a happy, dancing girl who laughed and sang and span around. She hoped that being back at Pemberley would make her feel like that girl again, would allow her to discover who she was trapped behind this façade of who people expected her to be.

The flat was warm and toasty, the smoky smell of chipotle pepper exuding from the slow cooker where the chilli con carne for dinner… _tea,_ was simmering gently. She had been given instructions to put potatoes in the oven and do something useful. Lizzy was away in town, involved in some top-secret meeting to do with something that was obviously very top-secret. Bored and restless, Imogen started to leaf through some papers in a cardboard box on the kitchen counter – there was half a box of macarons, and she quietly stole one thinking it wouldn’t be missed, there was a box from Liberty of London – empty, and a letter folded up tucked away in the myriad of tissue paper. Curiosity always got the better of Imogen; she was the kind of girl who would purposely seek out hidden Christmas presents, would always slow down on the motorway to look at accident scenes. The writing was loose and flowing, the letter addressed to ‘my lovely Lizzy’. Oh, she thought excitedly, so this is a love letter.

Imogen has never known her sister to date, apart from the on-off extra marital with Matthew who had been an ever-fix’ed mark upon the Darcy household for as long as she could remember. And then there had been David, who she had met twice in London – her sister gleefully clinging onto the arm of the man who had a sad look in his eye and a faint mark on his finger where his wedding ring should be. Lizzy had been so happy with him – feasting on the scraps of attention he had thrown her way, until he announced one day that his previously barren wife, Bianca, was now ‘with child’ and dumped her halfway through Les Miserables. Imogen was sure that as the cast sang ‘One Day More’ that her sister had decided to fortify her heart even more and she had not seen or heard of another man to darken the doors of Pemberley. Until now.

I: OMG, Jess!! My sister is totally shagging Benn Williams

J: WTF? Where you at??

I: Pemberley…in exile. FFS.

J: how has your sister managed that?

I: Fuck knows, must have a magic vagina.

J: Wow.

I: all hush hush though – he wrote her a letter like he thinks he’s actually Mr fucking Darcy.

J: That’s…. weird, but romantic I guess. Your sister is nearly forty, she probably gets off on that stuff.

I: Probs. Did you know he was an alcoholic? Glug glug.

J: hello kettle, this is pot….

I: FARK ORF! Hahahaha

J: let me know when you’re back in town, I miss your ACTUAL FACE.

Jess clicked her phone off and placed it back in her bag, she had wondered where Imogen had been for the last few weeks; her social media had been dead and she was happy to hear that she was actually okay, although hadn’t been bothered enough to contact her first.

“Who was that?” Pippa called over the table, as she finished her gin.

Journalists were always so nosey, Jess thought, even if they were your friends. 


	49. Lizzy

Click. His name flashed up on the screen, accompanied by a picture they had taken in the summer.

“Hello you”

There was a silence, followed by the sound of her heart starting to drop to her feet.

“Benn…is everything okay?”

Quiet again, except for the thud of her heart pounding against her chest, pulsing in her fingertips, popping along her skin.

He spoke, his voice crackling on the line. It was a bad connection.

“I can’t hear you, is everything alright?”

“No. Everything is not alright.”

His voice was harder than she had ever heard it.

“Tell me, what? I feel like I have done something wrong here.”

There was a silence again and then in cold, cutting tones he sliced through her.

“Lizzy, you know what you’ve done.”

“What?” Reasons, sentences, occurrences raced through her mind like eager whippets. “Benn…” She didn’t understand.

“I thought I could trust you, but…you’re just like everyone else trying to make money off me.”

“What have I done? No, I haven’t, I wouldn’t, I…Benn, please…”

“Y’know, it’s worse because I thought what we had was special. I thought that… well, I don’t know what I thought, but I know that I can’t do this anymore. You killed it, it’s dead. Please don’t call me again.”

“But Benn, please, what have I…?”

The phone clicked off.

It was over.

*

Lizzy stomped up the grand staircase, rudely un-excusing herself past the last flurry of pensioners who were loitering on the landing before banging through the oak door on the left marked ‘Private’. Her heart was beating in her chest, sending out the loud thud-thud thud-thud like a drummer in a marching band preparing for battle. Her face was red, firstly from the tears that had made her mascara run, and then the cold icy wind that had branded the salty water across her face and her cheeks. She didn’t know if she angry because she was upset, or upset because she was angry; by the time she flung open the door of the flat, she knew. She was livid. Completely livid.

“IMOGEN” She could feel the anger in her voice, echoing around the room, bouncing off every surface, ricocheting off the plasterwork and landing in each corner. “IMOGEN!”

She heard movement upstairs, the shuffle and creak of feet on the floorboards, it was like someone had fired a starting pistol and she ran up the tight, wooden curve of the staircase, her shoes bouncing off each step, her breath hot and filled with a fiery rage. Imogen was standing on the top landing, emerging from her bedroom with tousled hair and a sleepy face.

“Imogen!” Lizzy demanded, her voice staccato. “What the fuck have you done?”

Sleepy and unaware, the younger girl looked at her sister, who was red-faced, looking like a budget fancy dress Miss Trunchbull – her hair scraped back, wearing a baggy old jumper, the faint hint of burst of acne chasing across her cheek like a constellation.

“What are you on about?” she replied nonchalantly, sleepily, not caring about the answer as she retreated into her bedroom.

Lizzy pulled her by the shoulder and thrust her phone up under her sister’s nose, so close that she couldn’t even see the screen, let alone any words written on it. She caught ‘Benn’ and ‘Drink’.

“What the fuck?” Imogen took the phone and quickly scrolled through the story, at the top of the page was a picture of Benn and his ex-wife, along with their two kids, and then a dramatic headline.

_BENN: I’M AN ALCOHOLIC_

Followed by another:

_MADELEINE: WHY A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY A NIGHT MADE ME LEAVE BENN_

_EXCLUSIVE: How I Feared For Our Girls._

“He’s been on the phone,” she said. “He thinks _I’ve_ told the press.”

“You haven’t told the press – who would you tell?”

“Exactly!” Lizzy rounded on her sister, “it must have been you… You were the only one I told. Even _Harriet_ doesn’t know.”

“Come off it, Lizard.” Imogen pouted. “Everyone knows Benn Williams is a drunk!”

“No… No, they don’t.”

“Matthew knows…”

Lizzy shook her head slowly, “so…so… you…” the words hovered on her lips, “ _did_ tell someone _?”_

“I might have told my friend Jess, but she wouldn’t have said anything,” Imogen waved her hand dismissively. “I trust her with my life!”

“Is this the Jess who dumped you at the hospital?”

It wasn’t a question, it was a challenge.

“At least she was around to take me to hospital.” The words were pointed, fired quickly and stealthily like arrows from the shot of a master bowman.

Lizzy shielded herself from the words with a defence of anger. She knew full well that Jess Barczyk, stupid and empty-headed as she was, aligned herself with very different circles. Her current BFF was Pippa Hastings, a rather nasty and sneaky ‘journalist’ from one of the online rag-mags that traded in overheard gossip and unfounded rumours, publishing them online until the stories caught the attention of the real press. Whilst most journalists worked with production press officers and agents, keeping less beneficial stories out of the papers, stopped them from being posted on hateful, gossip filled websites, ones like Pippa Hastings didn’t. Ones like Pippa Hastings only ever cared about where their next headline was coming from and didn’t care who they hurt in the process.

“Don’t be a dick, Imo,” she snarled. “You’re the one who has fucked up here.”

“I haven’t fucked up anything,” Imogen bounced back. “He was only an actor, not like he was your boyfriend or anything. I don’t understand why you are so bothered.”

Lizzy visibly huffed, rolling her eyes at her sister before turning around before she said something she knew she would regret. Benn Williams might not have been her boyfriend, but they both had known that something extraordinary was beginning.  Now it was gone, slipped through her fingers like the rounders ball she had always failed to catch, and she was staring at empty hands, standing at the far end of the field.

“Or did you actually like him? Actually, let someone in for once…” Imogen said in a gentle mocking tone, but to Lizzy it was like a red rag to an already angry bull.

She whipped around quickly, “don’t you dare made snide little comments about me or my private life when I have been covering up for you for years – making sure nobody knew about rehab, or your friend ‘charlie’…”

Imogen recoiled, back on the defensive, retreating towards the bed; her heartbeat had risen to her throat, pulsing hard, visible to anyone who looked.

“That’s what sisters are meant to do… it was alright for you,” she sneered. “Being sent away to live in the idyllic English countryside with grandad, who adored you and treated you like a Princess.” Words were falling out of Imogen’s mouth now, a waterfall of hidden resentment. “Everyone loved you and you got to be normal…”

“Normal? There was nothing normal about it all!” Lizzy screeched. “You got to live in France with your mum and dad, being brought up in a - ”

“Have you even met my mother, Lizzy?” She laughed derisively, causing the red streaks across Lizzy’s face to flare so she looked like angry teakettle. “She has all the maternal instincts of a snake! Sent me away to school when I was four years old – do you know what that’s like? No! You were here tucked in your _special bed_ that we never hear the end of.”

Lizzy inhaled deeply, “I was here because my mum was dead” Her voice caught in her throat and she paused for a moment trying to process what she was trying to say, “…don’t you think I would have rather lived at home with my family?”

“Charlie was away at school….”

“That’s not the point, Imogen,” she said, shaking her head, amazed that her sister failed to comprehend anything about her and her life. It suddenly seemed that she was standing in the same room as a stranger. “You have had so many chances given to you, and you don’t even see what - ”

“You’ve had the same chance and privileges as me, Lizzy, don’t pretend that just because you went to state school that - ”

“This is nothing to do with going to state school!”

“It most certainly has!” Imogen jeered. “You were always jealous because I went to private school, always complaining to Dad about it…”

Lizzy eyed her sister, feeling angry… sad… a whole mixture of emotions, a veritable shitstorm of a day and them both standing in the middle of it. She was angry at Imogen; angry because she never understood the impact her behaviour had on other people, didn’t seem to care; always knowing that everyone else would always sweep up her mess and make everything okay again. But she was also angry; angry because deep down inside her she knew that her sister was right.

Lizzy was always Lady Darcy in Derbyshire, and that was fine, she could pop on her fake pearls and her scarf, her Liz Earle perfume and she could play the role in the way that people expected. But in London, at the important black tie events with the daughters of the friends of her father’s where she had to wear a tiara and an evening gown, she always felt inadequate and out of her depth. Alexis and Tiff and Bunty, the girls who had all been to the same prep schools and on the same gap years, would talk about people she didn’t know, trips she hadn’t been on, bars she would probably never go to, and she knew that as she walked away they mocked her in derisive, well-enunciated tones, their delicate but barbed laughter chiming against their crystal champagne glasses as their expensive heels click-clacked on the marble dancefloor. Imogen had always fit perfectly into this world – had been to the same school, slept with the same men, shared the same coke dealer - whilst Lizzy had always been the odd woman with last year’s dress and weird accent; a square peg desperately trying to wedge herself into a round hole.

“I’m tired of looking after you,” Lizzy went over to the wardrobe and took the Louis Vuitton suitcase down from the shelf, the weight of it pulling on her arm and making her angrier. She launched it onto Imogen’s bed and started grabbing up the debris of clothes and accessories lying over the floor, clearing the make-up from the dresser and throwing that in too.

“What the fuck are you doing with my things?” Imogen snatched at her make-up bag.

“I think you should phone Dad… or your mum, whoever picks up first, because I don’t want you here anymore.” She flung the pink suede bag into the opened suitcase, the contents spilling out onto the crumple of clothing.

“You can’t throw me out of Pemberley, Lizzy,” Imogen shouted. “I belong here, I’m a Darcy too!”

“Start acting like one,” she shouted back, her voice rising an octave as she turned her back on the scene of disarray with Imogen standing there in a baggy sweatshirt.

“Stop thinking that you’re better than me, Elizabeth!”

The voice was shrill and angry; spoilt like a child who had their toys taken away for bad behaviour. Lizzy turned around quickly, and Imogen visibly shrunk, her nerve failing her.

“I don’t think I’m better than you, Imo; I know I’m better than you.” Lizzy spoke slowly, she felt like a lioness toying with her pray. “You’re simply a spoiled little rich girl who always needs to be looked after; you’re like a child.” She spat out the words, “You are so selfish – you have only ever thought about yourself. It’s always how things affect you, how you cope with things, how we can all pussyfoot around you. Well I’m sick of doing it. You need to fucking well grow up and sort yourself out; don’t be here when I get back.”

The words were venomous, seeping into the younger girl like the poison from the bite of a rattlesnake; an immediate sharp pain followed by a slowly releasing agony working its way through her, and as it reached her heart she gasped, inhaling in a rough, haunted way that caused her to drop to the floor, shaking as the spasm of emotion tore away at her muscles. She heard the angry march down the stairs, the slam of the door. Imogen couldn’t feel the breath in her throat, she could only feel her own heartbeat, could only hear the ringing of her sister’s words in her ear.


	50. Millicent - 1939

Millicent Darcy stood on the roof of the Wyatt tower; it had once housed the senior female servants and the occasional small child belonging to visitors, but now it was mainly used for storage and she had pushed her way past boxes and trunks to reach the highest point of the house, clambering up the spiral staircase in her velvet shoes with the diamante that had once been used for dancing, but which were now for housework.

The moon was bright; the sky above Pemberley bluer than she had ever remembered it being in September, but it felt bittersweet. War was in the air and the rampage of Adolf Hitler throughout Europe had resulted in an announcement, the tinny reverberation of which had sent shivers down her spine as if each word was full of electricity, charging through her. They had perched round the wireless in the drawing room, holding hands and smoking cigarettes, before Sybil had run into the garden, crying hysterically and Winston, fully aware of the obligations ahead of him, stared at his mother looking positively frightened.

He had grown into an overly tall and lumbering man of twenty-two with a crease in his brow that had deepened after years of concentrating on being good enough. He had blonde wavy hair that had a tendency to frizz out unless carefully attended, and a little curl at his forehead which he could never smooth down with Brylcreem no matter how hard he tried. His mother knew that as a peer of the realm he was far too valuable an asset to be allowed on the frontline and risk capture; but she was also aware of her son’s overwhelming need to prove himself. Even though he had been legitimised by an act of Parliament, there was still a feeling of inferiority that ran through Winston and she saw it manifesting itself in an urgent need to overachieve. He had to be the best, the cleverest, the most accomplished; and whilst she knew it for what it was, it appeared to others to be a very unbecoming aristocratic arrogance. He reminded her so much of his father sometimes; the vivid memories illuminated with every familiar gesture, each little characteristic a remembrance of the brilliantly bright boy who lay silent in the lonely French earth.

 

James Fitzwilliam felt duty bound to send for Millicent Darcy after the telegram had been received informing him that his eldest son and heir had been killed in action. On a stiflingly hot August afternoon she had travelled in the Daimler, twisting and curving on the country roads, to the house near Wakefield that the Fitzwilliam family called home. Inside the rooms were dark and cavernous, the faded grandeur of a family who had been hit hard by death duties and bad business investments obvious in each decaying, opulent room. In the drawing room, over the marble fireplace, there was a portrait of Mabel – delicate and beautiful in her wedding gown, wearing the Lady Anne necklace that Millicent’s mother had remodelled into various pins, brooches, necklaces and rings; the diamonds and sapphires scattered across the family like stardust. On the console table there was a photograph of the same lady – Miss Darcy, Lady Darcy, Lady Fitzwilliam, the Countess of Matlock and finally as simply Lady Mabel, the girl who lived. It had been taken in 1907, a shrivelled but proud old woman of eighty-nine, still firmly holding onto life. Millicent had only met Mabel once, when she was a very young girl; but she remembered how she jutted out her chin with a haughty arrogance, dismissing death as a mere inconvenience. She had done so many great things, but now simply a portrait on the wall, a forgotten face lost to history, Millicent wondered how history would remember this time – hopefully as the greatest and last war, a moment in time when although it seemed the world would end, it was simply paving the way for peace. She took one last look up at Mabel, glad that she was not alive to see this.   

In the drawing room the family wore black; for Rupert, for David, for Henry – three boys lost to the battlefields of France, three more still out fighting somewhere in the great big nowhere of the trenches. They sat for a moment, drinking tea, talking about Rupert as if he was merely out on the hunt, or simply in town for a visit. Catriona Fitzwilliam, the gentle red-haired Countess of Matlock took a seat beside her. She was sitting closer to her than was socially acceptable, but Millicent appreciated the proximity. She turned around to find the lady’s eyes, usually so sparkling and vivacious, empty – the fire in them had gone, the embers saturated with tears. Slowly she placed a bright white envelope into Millicent’s hand, pressing tightly into her palm as if she was branding her, before getting up and walking away, a handkerchief pressed to her face.

Escaping into the untamed wilderness of the former formal gardens, Millicent hid near the river, under the bridge where she had played with Rupert when they were children – whipping off their tough leather boots and thick woollen stockings and dipping their feet into the water, feeling the current of the water underneath tickling their toes, before running back to the house and arriving breathless, barefoot and filthy. It was always worth getting scolded, she thought, as she slipped off her shoes and dipped her stockinged feet in the water. Tentatively she ran her finger under the seal, thinking of how his lips had touched the paper.

The letter told her how excited he was, that the thought of being a father scared him more than the shells of the Hun ever would, but that they would do it together. He wished he could have done this properly, he said. But would she, if she felt she wanted to, if she didn’t mind terribly, would she consent to be his wife. He would be home soon, he said, the Germans were retreating, and he thought it was all over.

It is now, she thought sadly as she tipped the ring out from its velvet pouch. It was a silver band with a round, luxurious pearl as the centrepiece, and she had placed it on her finger. She wondered how it would have looked next to her platinum band on their wedding day as he slipped it on her hand in the little church in Lambton; she would wear lace and carry lilacs, and he would wear his uniform, the sunlight glinting off the trim on his epaulettes, the hair at the nape of his neck turning into a curl. Millicent knew that she wasn’t the only woman in England with a missing sweetheart, but it didn’t stop her heart from shattering into pieces as she sat on the riverbank with his ring on her finger.

She removed it gently, tucking it safely back into the soft pouch and then tightly into the pocket of her bag, the bright blue lining suddenly reminded her of dancing in the ballroom of Derbyshire House, the colour of her gown matching the colour of his waistcoat, as they twirled together in a myriad of oceanic colours, unaware of anyone but each other. As she fell out of her daydream and jolted back to earth, it took all her strength to maintain a quiet dignity on the riverbank. She wondered how long it would take before her heart realised he was gone for good, buried in the soil of the French countryside, a fading picture in her mind.

It was days later when the tears finally came; she had huddled under the covers of the bed in the room that had been his, feeling the world was ending and nothing would ever make sense again. The Countess knocked on the door gently, directing the servant girl with a tea tray to place it on the table, walking over to the bed she gathered the girl into her arms and held her until the dusky blanket of night fell upon the estate. Catriona noticed the rounding of the belly under the cotton nightgown, the fullness of her bosom; she had birthed eight children and recognised the early signs. She realised that though fate and gunfire had taken three of her sons, God had given them a great gift. She pulled Millicent in closer and whispered to her that everything would be alright, everything was always going to be alright, and they both cried for the loss of Rupert, David, Henry and the millions of other boys who would never make it home.

 

Millicent still wore the small pearl ring, still twirled it around on her finger, still wore it as a remembrance of him, a sad memento of a future that never was. She had loved again; the handsome American who had delighted in her for a year before travelling back to Utah and marrying his childhood sweetheart; she had been left with a beautiful daughter who had emerald green eyes and perfect teeth. And there had been other lovers, who had come and gone, passing through life, touching their footprints upon her heart for a short time. But it would always be Rupert she chose in every lifetime, in every eventuality; and sometimes when the nights were cold, and the moon was high, she could still feel the rough scratch of his moustache on her breast, the smell of leather and cognac ricocheting around the room.

The last war had been all about loss, but she sensed that this one would be about survival and she needed to do all she could to protect Pemberley and her family’s legacy. Before the estate workers signed up, she closed all wings of the house - lowering the blinds and putting up the heavy wooden shutters that had not been used since her grandparents were alive – leaving the drawing room and library open and relocating the family to the smaller bedrooms on the nursery corridor, despite Sybil’s protestations.

Under Millicent’s strict instructions, the staff began to pack up furniture and paintings, storing them in the massive service tunnel that ran underneath the gardens. She personally pulled all the family jewels and trinkets and keepsakes, everything precious to them, and locked them in the vaults that ran deeper than the wine cellars. They volunteered to take in evacuees from the local industrial towns, and the long gallery was filled with lines of small trundle beds ready to be occupied by frightened children who had never seen sheep before, let alone the herds of deer that still roamed over the ancient hunting land or the angry, squawking Canadian geese who strutted through the gardens, terrorising anyone in their way.

Millicent looked out at the horizon towards the city lights of Manchester twinkling away in the distance, and took a long, hard drag of her cigarette. All they could do now was wait for it to be over; wait to see if they all made it through alive.


	51. Imogen

Imogen had never seen the sky above Pemberley so blue – it was the colour of sapphires, the stars twinkling down like encrusted diamonds. Underneath her feet the sandstone felt cold and rough, like a pumice stone she thought as she delicately tiptoed along the narrow bannister, her years of ballet classes paying off. She lifted her arms high above her head, feeling the cold nights breeze flow over her like a baptism of ice. It felt dreamy, almost ethereal; she was a spectral goddess dancing across the rooftops – her sheer floaty gown lifting gently with each gasp of air, before falling in waves across the sky like a parachute squadron. She stood at the corner of the balustrade – a foot on each side - on the left the pointing verdigris encrusted figure of Neptune furiously stabbed the heavens with his trident, his lead face incensed and raging for eternity. She laughed out loud at his metallic wrath, the wine she had drunk earlier to numb her emotions finally serving its purpose.

And then she fell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imogen was on the leaded roof, shivering, scared – the dark bruise spreading across her pale thin thigh like a wine stain.

Harriet, unsure what to do wrapped her coat around her and brought her inside to the warmth of the flat.

Lizzy; eyes weary, nails bitten, shaking.

A note marked out in rage, the words carved in anger and sadness.

So many tears, so much love.

The sun rose over Cage Hill and the world was new once more.


	52. Lizzy

It was February when the roof in the West Wing started to leak, the water trickling down the interior walls and causing the wo­od in the Mahogany Room to swell and crack. The offices of the HHS also suffered, with three rooms being off limits due to plaster falling from the ceiling; superficial symptoms of a larger and more dangerous hole in the leaded roof that was threatening the very structure of Pemberley itself. Joyce had blamed herself for what she saw as a terrible failing, but it was more due to the huge budget required to keep the house in tip-top condition. Matthew Wickham’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’ was slated for a Christmas release, which meant that all the promotional material that they were relying on to drive visitors to the house couldn’t be used until at least July. Even though the West wing wasn’t as strategically important as other areas of the house, it still housed some keys parts on the visitor trail and was currently closed off to all but the most senior of HHS staff.

Joyce sat in the leather chair in her office at the front of the house with her eyes focused on the spreadsheet on her computer screen. Whatever she thought of, wherever she clicked, there was just simply not enough money to fix this right now, she looked at the small portrait of Mary Darcy that hung in the corner of the room. What would she do, Joyce thought to herself as the stress of the last few months bubbled to the surface. There was a small knock on the door, she took a breath – inhaling deeply, before dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and then throwing it away quickly.

“Come in,” she took a large mouthful of tea from the mug on her desk, it had gone cold and she grimaced as she swallowed.

“Joyce, can I have a word?”

Lizzy Darcy stood at the doorway, dressed in muted tones, her hair scraped back into a tighter than usual bun, and Joyce had noticed that in the last few months she had been a lot flatter than usual. She had been going through the motions, but there had been nothing extra from her. Joyce had watched her walking up into the moorlands every lunchtime, returning a few hours later just before darkness fell. She wondered what was wrong and gestured for her to come in and take a seat.

“Would you like a drink?” Joyce got up from her desk and walked over to the kettle next to the fireplace.

Lizzy took a seat on one of the blue upholstered chairs that she knew used to live in the Bright Gallery. It was always a strange experience coming into Joyce’s office, which had once been Winston’s inner sanctuary – where he had prepped her for GCSE’s and her A-Levels, where she had found him one evening keeled over and suffering and unable to breathe, the place where the paramedics had rushed in and connected him to machines and taken him away on a stretcher as she followed behind closely with Staughton in the ancient maroon Jaguar. It was also the room where she had listened to Uncle Jeremy’s partner from the firm read out the last will and testament of her beloved grandfather a few months later. It was always strange to come back here and see the room looking so different – filled with all the accoutrements required to run a massive estate – but so similar. The walls were still the same colour, the windows still letting in draughts and, if she closed her eyes, she could still smell sugared almonds and cigar smoke.

“I’ve come in a more official capacity. I think I have something that could help us with the roof.” 

“Half a million pounds in cash?” Joyce said with a heavy sarcasm.

Lizzy looked Joyce in the eye, she had never known how to approach this woman who had poked and prodded and challenged her in every aspect of her life over the past seventeen years. She eyed her blonde highlights, the soft creases around her eyes, the subtly expensive jacket; and then she spoke firmly.

“I know that you don’t have the money to fix the roof, and I know we need to fix it. If water is coming in like that, then we need serious repairs…”

“Lady Elizabeth,” Joyce started. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

“No,” Lizzy countered, “but you need me to help you.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, then another folder inside that folder and then a plastic wallet. In it was a piece of old paper, it was a letter written in faded ink.

“Are you suggesting a treasure hunt again, because last time Steve got sick of pulling kids out of the lake?”

Joyce shot Lizzy a withering look, whilst she appreciated her attempts to help with Pemberley, Lizzy really had no idea what it was like to run a visitor attraction with all the red tape, ramifications and wrangling it entailed.

“Joyce, please look.” She pushed the letter towards her, the script was small, but tight; elegant cursive regimentally written across the page. “It’s the last letter.”

There had always been rumour of the famous last letter that Darcy had written to his wife, despite the archivists from Austenation searching the house, it had never been found. For once Joyce was silent eyeing the paper on the table, she looked up at Lizzy hesitantly.

“You found it?”

Lizzy nodded, as Joyce’s eyes scoured the letter, speed reading at first and then her eyes going back up the page, absorbing the words that he had written. She had found the letter, its seal had been opened but it was still intact, hidden between the pages of a musty atlas.

“Do you know how precious this is?” Joyce whispered as she placed the letter down respectfully in the centre of the desk that belonged to the man himself, in the room where he wrote it.

“I have more letters.”

“You do?”

“Yes, all of them,” she whispered.

 

“I was saving them for myself because I didn’t want anyone to see them, I wanted to keep Elizabeth and Darcy all for myself.” She shook her head, realising now the selfishness of that notion. “But if you are part of one of the greatest love stories, then you owe it to people to tell them the whole truth, even the bits that are hard or scary or the parts that could break your heart, you need to show people that. Show them that no love, no matter how great or wonderful or written by Jane Austen, is ever perfect. Love isn’t perfect, it’s about finding someone who sees your flaws and loves you because of them.” Lizzy sat down on the chair and picked up Darcy’s letter, “Darcy loved Elizabeth for all of these reasons – he loved her despite society and his pride telling him that he shouldn’t…and she wasn’t afraid of him either, she didn’t feel that she had to accept his proposal and she told him where to go. It was only when he was a better man and worthy of her that they became equals. It was very special, but it wasn’t perfect. I don’t think any love is.”

She laid the letters out on the table; short notes on pale paper written by Elizabeth, long winding epitaphs from Darcy, giddy ramblings from Lydia, graceful and restrained missives signed by Georgiana. It was the untold story of Elizabeth and Darcy – more than a love story, but the story of a life together.

 “I’ve been editing the letters and putting them in some kind of order,” Lizzy said, suddenly embarrassed by it all. “Maggie has spoken Astrid Mulhoon at Austenation and they are really excited about it; we have a meeting with them next week about publishing it as a book.”

“I see,” Joyce smiled, this was a little ray of hope on a dismal day. “But what about now? It will take ages for any money from a book to reach us.”

Lizzy looked at Joyce, she never understood why this woman hated her so much, how she always rejected every suggestion, always dismissed her, possibly thinking that she was silly and frivolous.

“There is a structural engineer coming tomorrow, who is already paid for out of the estate funds. My dad authorised it when I explained to him how much you were worrying about it. And then there is this,” she took an envelope out of her folder, “this should help with any immediate costs.”

She slid over the envelope. Joyce opened the thick envelope with steady hands and pulled out a cheque; she looked at it incredulously before walking over to Lizzy and giving her the biggest hug. “I don’t know how you have managed this, Lizzy… How have you managed this??”

Lizzy had never cared for the necklace that had been given to her mother on the birth of Charles, and she knew that whilst the Darcy family traditions and customs were special, Pemberley itself was far more valuable and she was utterly focused now on preserving what she could. She sold her Darcy Pearls pendant to a fanatical Austen fan in Utah, who had paid her a ridiculous amount of money for this unique piece of family history.

“I’m a Darcy,” she said firmly. “It doesn’t matter who owns it, or who lives here. Pemberley runs through my veins… Pemberley is –”

“Magic?” Joyce finished.

“Yes,” Lizzy looked at Joyce and an understanding passed between them, for now they were on the same side, fighting the battle against rotting roofs and failing timbers and light damage to protect the place they both loved.  “Pemberley is magic. Whatever you need us to do, we will do. We’re the Darcys of Pemberley, that doesn’t ever change.”

Joyce spent the rest of the afternoon contacting the HHS Head Office and the engineer, started putting into action the plans that she had arranged in her head when she was praying for a miracle. Lizzy stayed in the office and started to arrange the precious letters on the large round table; it stood in the corner of the room and was where she had studied endlessly for her Maths GCSE, which she only passed by the skin of her teeth and to avoid endless rebukes from Winston over her lack of study. Looking over at Joyce, efficient and passionate, she realised what her dad saw in her as she arranged and organised and planned.

“You should call him, you know,” she said as nonchalantly as she could whilst making a pot of tea. Joyce turned around sharply from the whiteboard, where she was plotting her schedule. 

Joyce shook her head, pushed her glasses up her nose. Lizzy eyed the older woman out of the corner of her vision, as she poured the tea and walked over to hand her a cup. The teacup clinked in the saucer.

“Do you love him?” She asked, passing her the cup.

Joyce laughed nervously, “Lizzy, what I feel for your father is of no concern really. Nothing is going to happen from it, we are merely two old friends who spent some time together.”

Lizzy sipped her tea, quietly observing the slight flush on Joyce’s face, the way she distractedly fiddled with the silver ring on her finger, the way she picked at the skin around her thumb trying to release nervous energy. She noticed it because it was exactly what she did and she wondered if she had more in common with Joyce than she thought.

“I think you could make each other very happy,” she put down her cup in the saucer and placed it on the table. “Don’t let your animosity towards me prevent you from having your own happily ever after.”

Joyce glanced up quizzically at the younger woman, “Lizzy… do you think I don’t like you?”

Joyce recalled the occasions in the past where she had severely reprimanded Lizzy for her behaviour; the stern, official letters that she had written about her tenancy in the house; the rejection of her offers for help when they were busy, and she suddenly felt a tremendous wave of guilt.

“I remember when you first arrived here,” Joyce smiled. “You were so small, so scared and so alone. My heart cried out to run over and hug you, this little mass of curls with a sulky lip and a suitcase bigger than she was.”

The room was softly lit now, the fire was crackling in the hearth, outside the first snowflakes of the year began to fall softly on the ground. There was comfortable silence and they took deep gulps of tea and warmed their toes by the fire.

“That day was so scary; I had only ever spent Christmas and Easter here. Winston was so angry-looking, that first night I just remember crying until it was time to get up,” she glanced at Joyce quickly, before looking away.

“Mrs Reynolds sent me to Lambton the next day to buy some fairy lights to wrap around your bed, and then spent the next three months complaining about them.”

They both smiled, remembering the very firm and not very fair housekeeper who had worked there since the sixties. Her name wasn’t Mrs Reynolds, of course; her real name was Janet Lewis and as far as anyone could imagine she had been born fully formed as an angry, short woman with beady eyes and yielding bosom. She had a heart of gold, tightly hidden in musty layers of starched linen, tied up tightly with cooking string, and her death a few years earlier had left a gaping hole in the heart of the Pemberley family.                

“I never hated you, you know, I think I was jealous a little bit. I spent my childhood coming here, and then when I was older I spent ages cleaning out the plaster in the dining room with a paintbrush at the top of a scaffold, or hoovering the tapestries,” she said with chagrin. “And then you came, and you ran riot throughout the place – blowing off the cobwebs!” Joyce remembered the ten-year-old running through the halls, barging through the doors, slamming up the stairs – loud, noisy, incorrigible Lizzy. “Every Friday afternoon it took me hours to line up all the rugs in the Long Gallery and every Friday evening you moved them to roller skate – which you shouldn’t have been doing anyway.”

“I thought we got away with that!”

“I always knew.” Joyce took Lizzy’s hand, noticing that her normally polished nails were bitten and chipped, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “If I was ever mean, or horrible to you, I want to apologise. You Darcys have a stiff upper lip and when you shout at someone, you mean it. When I shout or scold it’s my way of showing affection, ask my boys! I was always trying to protect you; you never had a mother, not really, and I always wanted a girl.”

“Please phone my dad,” Lizzy said softly. “He might be Mr Darcy, but I am fairly convinced that he will have no objections to your family or your social standing, despite what you might think. I also think he can look a lot like Colin Firth if he combs his hair the right way...”

Joyce smiled hesitantly, she had been scared to contact Hugh, everything had started to move so fast and so furiously, but then Imogen had been ill and it all felt too awkward and she had left it too long.

“Do you think I should?”

Lizzy nodded, “I do.”

 Joyce studied Lizzy’s face; she looked tired, saddened by the events of the last few months, exhausted by the drama. She didn’t know all of the particulars, but there was something do with receipts and expenses claims, Lizzy had been asked to leave the job at the solicitors’ firm in Lambton. There has been visits from the Geordie woman who had been tearful, and Lizzy had comforted and hugged; it had been alright in the end, but it had taken a while for it to get there.

And then there had been Benn Williams; Joyce had got on well with ‘Mr Darcy’ and he often popped into her office in between takes, stealing Kit-Kats and being friendly and casually flirtatious in a way that would have made her blush if she had been twenty years younger. She had seen the friendship between Benn and Lizzy develop into something she couldn’t quite pinpoint, but now there had been nothing and she wondered why.

“What about you,” Joyce asked, trying to change the subject.

Lizzy wasn’t sure if she was ready to talk to anyone about Benn Williams. Because that feeling… that feeling hadn’t gone away. When she thought about the way he looked at her, it sent shivers up and down her spine; remembering the gentle rub of his stubble against her chin, the gentleness of his kiss, the way his body felt when he was laughing and she was holding him close; then there was the way he had comforted her over the phone when she was convinced that her sister wasn’t going to make it, how he had stayed up all night listening to her sob never once faltering in his steadfastness.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she smiled.

They both knew that she wasn’t.


	53. Mabel - 1859

Mabel Darcy was forty-three years of age when her loving and devoted husband, Henry Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, was accidentally shot twice whilst out hunting with a party who had ridden up from town. She was thankful that they had been blessed with six beautiful children; the heir to the earldom, Richard, and four more strong, healthy boys; including her youngest son, Albert, who had the Darcy countenance and the Bennet humour.  Henry had been Mabel’s friend since childhood, his gentle manner and their shared adoration of the poetry of Shelley and Byron gave them a common interest. Their parents had been of the conviction that an affection had formed between the two, and tentative plans had been put in place when they were both still in schooling that one day in the future the families of Darcy and Fitzwilliam would unite. Mabel wasn’t convinced; Henry was a good friend, but she didn’t think he would ever be able to love her like the prince in her storybooks loved the princess.

When she was twenty-two, her younger brother Francis confided in her one windy, thundery December night as they both stayed up reading late in the library at Pemberley, the windows rattling against the roar hitting them from across the Peaks. He had looked at her, scared, unsure; she had never seen him like this before, he was always so certain, so arrogant in his opinions, that she knew it was something serious. In the end, she hadn’t been too shocked – she was a modern woman of the world after all, she thought - and she held her younger brother close; the soft brown waves burnished with hints of red curling behind his ears, his dark grey eyes almost molten with tears as he held onto her, as a sailor would hold onto a mast in a storm. She had whispered to him that everything would be alright, that she understood. He pushed her away angrily as if he believed that she would never understand, and she dragged him towards her and held him tightly, explaining to him that she knew, that she understood the seriousness of the sin he believed he was committing, but that she didn’t think like that, she was totally of the belief that love was love in whatever form it came in and that she would do anything to make him happy, that she would always do anything to make him happy.

It was three months later when the engagement was announced. Mabel had always sworn that she would never marry for anything less than love, and she wasn’t; but this was not the romantic love that she had dreamed of when reading the stories of her youth. Mabel Darcy knew that she was no Pamela, no Emma Woodhouse, – there was no George Knightley or Colonel Brandon waiting for her at the end of the altar in the little church in Lambton, she was fully aware, but there was a salvation in sight for two men that she loved dearly. She still thought about Percy Wyndham and the comfortable little life they could have had on the coast, but she loved her Papa too much to have ever defied him, and despite what Percy had promised, she knew that any future they had would have been tainted by every important thing that they would have sacrificed, but if they all fulfilled their obligations then they would all be rewarded with a happily ever after in one way or another.

The night before the ceremony, Fitz and Francis, had taken her out for a race around the park in her phaeton, knowing that this was probably the last time that she would be able to be simply Mabel, as the day after she would be Lady Fitzwilliam, Countess of Matlock, and they would never again be able to grab her by her arms and legs and throw her in the lake as she kicked and writhed, their mother shouting at them from the balcony whilst amused servants looked on. The four Darcy siblings were close despite the gaps in age; Fitzwilliam was married with three of his own children now – his young wife, Marianne, was due to give birth to their fourth in the autumn and Mabel was excited to become an Aunt all over again.

She slipped off her pumps and dipped her feet in the lake as her brothers smoked; it was disconcerting to her to think that tomorrow Pemberley wouldn’t be home – that she would move to the estate at Nostell, the big old house that had belonged to the Fitzwilliam family for generations. She had spent many happy days there as a youngster, but to return to it now as mistress was daunting to say the least. Her mother had spoken to her about the day she had first arrived at Pemberley, scared and unsure about being the mistress of such a large household, when all of Derbyshire society were expecting her to fail, but she had the love and support of Darcy, who had chosen her out of everyone, and she knew that Henry would be as supportive to Mabel as she adjusted to her new role and got used to living away from her family. Mabel hugged her mother tight – they had spent the week packing up gowns and trinkets and treasures to be moved to the house in Yorkshire ahead of the wedding, and Elizabeth had dressed in an old gown made from red and gold and danced up and down the bright gallery, before falling onto her daughter’s bed, where they giggled until Darcy appeared at the door with a sour look on his face. They screeched with laughter until his face cracked a smile and he joined them on the bed, where all three shared an embrace and talked until supper.

It was much later when Mabel, who had fallen asleep in the library, awoke to see her mother and father dancing together in the saloon, their figures illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight. She sneaked over to the sofa underneath the grand staircase, where she could now hear clearly her father singing softly to her mother, as she looked up and smiled demurely at him before nuzzling herself into his neck. Her father had always told her that to be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love, but she had failed to see how they had ever fallen in love dancing the rigid, complicated dances of their youth. Looking at them now she knew that Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy were the epitome of the romantic love that she would always long for, the love she had found and sacrificed, the love that she would never be able to have again. She took one last look at them before gently tiptoeing into the gallery and into her own rooms. About an hour later when she was too excited to sleep, she heard them, drunk and giddy with laughter, noisily running into their own chambers at the end of the gallery and locking the door.

 

Fitzwilliam Darcy walked her down the aisle as proud as could be, a smile etched across his face for the whole day.  As his only daughter, Mabel held a special place in his heart and in the dark days after her birth when his dearest Elizabeth was beyond his reach, it was the little sparkle in the baby’s eyes that kept him optimistic for the future. He had approved of the match with Henry Fitzwilliam, despite knowing that no man – no matter how exceptional, rich, handsome or kind – would ever be good enough for his daughter.

Her grandmother’s diamond necklace rested at her neck, it was a glorious suite of jewels including earrings and a bracelet and these had been given to Lady Anne when she had married George Darcy. Her father had looked at her proudly as he gently fastened the clasp on the necklace, but she could only feel the heaviness of her grandmother’s jewels, the weight of the expectation. Henry would need an heir; a boy to inherit the vast and ancient Fitzwilliam fortune, and then more children to ensure the continuation of the line.

The delicate, blonde gentleman with the blue eyes that glittered like jewels and the tight little mouth that pursed like a rosebud, stood at the end of the altar, looking nervously around as she floated towards him in a light pink gown, with frills to the arms which she found overly fussy. Meanwhile she could see Francis standing there, smiling at her, grateful that she was keeping his secret safe, protecting his life by sacrificing her own.

Despite their unusual arrangement, Mabel and Henry had loved each other very much. She found that there was something ultimately fulfilling about being married to your best friend, and she had never had to worry about Henry taking a mistress or not confiding in her. They were equal in every way and she knew that she had been envied by other women in their set, especially Florence Cadwallader who was constantly fretful of her own husband’s infidelity and complained heartily about her lot when she took tea on the terrace of the house at Wakefield. If only they knew the sacrifice a woman had to make for such a security, Mabel had thought as she sipped tea and looked out over the endless rolling pastures surrounding Nostell.

 

In the Still Room where his body had been placed Mabel kissed Henry’s cold face and said her goodbyes. She couldn’t bear to imagine the pain that would have ripped through his body as his spine snapped into pieces, or the trauma of the jarring wound to his skull that had meant that even though she could identify him, it was obvious that half of his head was missing. Bowdler had not wanted the mistress to see her husband like this, had wanted to shield the lady from the gruesome sight, but she had insisted, cleaning the body by herself as her last duty to a beloved husband.

She returned to the house to let her children know their father was dead.  Richard, their eldest son and not quite thirteen was now the Earl of Matlock; he looked petrified, looking as if he might drown under the burden of responsibility, and she held him tight in her arms until the sobs echoed away. She left him, looking young and frightened even in sleep, curled up on the sofa in front of the fire, carefully covering him with a blanket.

The butler at Nostell had known Henry Fitzwilliam since he was in the cradle, had glimpsed his peculiarities and his queerness when he had returned home from school, had witnessed the particular intimacy with the Darcy boy first hand, and then there had been others. He felt worst for the Missus, he wondered if she was aware that her husband was…well… like he was. Bowdler also knew that this was no accident; that the shots with which the Earl had been hit were too precise, too calculated. Sitting in the pantry in the bowels of the house, he took a small shot of whisky from the stores, fully aware that his master had been killed in cold blood by the group of men currently drinking his brandy and sleeping under his roof.

Mabel had wondered if her beloved brother James would have looked like that if they had recovered his body from the sea, wondered if he had gasped for air as the water filled his lungs, or if he had merely drifted away into a peaceful, unending sleep. She often thought about the last time she saw him, smiling and waving as the coach pulled away from Pemberley after that glorious summer where they were all together, all the Darcys before growing up and moving away and losing each other. She had never cried properly for James, never wanting to display her sadness in case it was perceived as a feminine weakness; and when her father had died, she had watched as her mother sobbed for hours into lace handkerchiefs, but she had not.  Standing for a moment in the hallway of the grand house that she called home, she fell to her knees in the brittle coldness of the night, as the grief and the loss and the pain poured out of her.

And then she stood up.


	54. Lizzy

Nearly twelve months after the principal photography on ‘Pride and Prejudice’ had completed, Matthew Wickham contacted the CEO of Vanquish Pictures, Brian McPhail and let him know that the final cut was ready for approval. Even though he had accolades and awards, he was always unsure about having to submit the print to the studio – to letting himself be so openly judged by his peers; there was always an underlying insecurity there that he hid with a layer of bravado and noise, attempting to shield the ever-present nervousness that he wasn’t quite good enough. He needn’t have worried; Simone McPhail was a Jane Austen obsessive and, after watching the screening with her father, proclaimed it the most wonderful thing that she had ever seen. Brian, completely devoted to his fifteen-year-old daughter, was equally impressed with the faithful retelling of the classic tale – carefully crafted and committed to script by Casey Muir, and beautifully and artfully shot by, so Brian thought, one of the best directors of his generation.

Benn Williams was perfect as Darcy, any concerns about his age completely unfounded and, Jenny Graves shone, sparkled and stole every scene she was in as Elizabeth. Pemberley itself looked glorious – if this doesn’t increase visitor numbers for Joyce, then I don’t know what will, he thought – and as the rough credits ran Matthew smiled to himself, content that he had done the story and his childhood home justice. As he had worked with his editing team, Matthew had fallen in love with Pemberley all over again, seeing it through new eyes.

 “Matthew!”

Linda hovered at the glass door of the corner office suite, “Cara is on line one for you…Do you want to take the call?”

He sighed, leaning back in the plush leather chair, waving his hand and rolling his eyes towards Linda who nodded in agreement before returning to her desk in the cubicle outside. They had worked together for eight years and she could anticipate his needs, remind him to take his echinacea and book appointments with his dental hygienist, and bat away soon-to-be ex-wives with a simple click of the telephone switchboard. It was all done with the utmost professionalism, of course, and as a result Linda Sobreski was one of the highest paid assistants in Hollywood, although she would argue that she was worth every cent and she would be right; despite the high levels of stress and anxiety that came from working in close proximity to one of the industry’s most highly-strung directors Linda loved her job.

“What do you mean ‘he’s busy’”, the voice at the end of the phone line challenged, “…having lunch at Sugarfish with Benn Williams and his latest conquest is not what I call busy.”

Linda stood firm, genuinely fatigued by the almost hourly rants. “I apologise, Mrs Wickham…would you like to leave a message?”

There was a saccharine tone to her Brooklyn accent that she knew would cause Cara to get even more aggravated than she already was, and it was intentional. For all his demanding ways, fuelled in part by his ego, Linda was irrevocably and totally on Matthew’s side and would defend him to the death in any battle, especially when his foe was someone as obnoxiously condescending as Cara Wickham.

“Fuck you, Linda,” the voice shrieked in jarring, clipped British tones, before the slamming of the phone down harshly signalled the end of the call. Linda smiled with the merest hint of smugness, anything she could do to make Cara Wickham’s day ever so slightly more unpleasant was worth it.

The marriage had already been over before he had even left for Derbyshire the previous summer; there were no sad declarations, just a mutual apathy. He had his own indiscretions, but she had her own, and whilst he was discreet, kept these away from her and their sons, she had flaunted her succession of lovers all over Southern California. Whilst he was well-known in industry circles, she wasn’t famous enough for it to have hit the newspapers yet – the US press not interested in the extra-marital activities of a minor Scottish aristocrat - and he was grateful that his children didn’t have to see the pictures of their mother kissing and canoodling with their twenty-three-year-old tennis coach in the small tequila bar in Calabasas all over the press.

He knew he was being a hypocrite; knew that there had been at least four actresses who could come forward and claim they had an on-set relationship, but he had always been cautious, had never allowed himself to get caught until this last time, when weighed down, tired, and stressed, they had left the hotel at the same time, inadvertently gotten into the same car and gone for breakfast, forgetting about the random photographers still loitering. It had taken one picture; gently tucking her hair behind her ear as she smiled up at him, that betrayed their relationship and set off a chain of events that meant he now living in the beach house in Malibu, where the three boys would visit him every other weekend as ordered by the court.

“What time is the flight to Heathrow?” He questioned Linda as he flicked through a pile of post on his desk, the sun was warm despite it being nearly November and he was glad that he would be back in England to feel the change in the seasons. As much as he loved living in LA, the constant heat and unwavering joviality of the natives caused him to long for the content silence of the tube, or the pleasantness of unseasonal rainfall where you ended up soaked to the skin.

“Eight o’clock, but there were no transfers to Manchester, so I have booked you a car to take you up to Pemberley,” Linda confirmed as she handed him a wedge of travel documents. “Tamsin’s tickets are in there too.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, he looked at her aghast with mock chagrin. Linda hadn’t seen Matthew happy in a long time, and whatever this girl was doing for him then she wanted her to keep on doing it. They would be away for a few months now; there was the promotional tour of the film that would be planned by the studio and Linda was looking to her vacation in Hawaii as she handed over the reins to her British counterpart. Matthew threw a few items in his bag, kissed Linda on the cheek and waved her farewell. It was going to be a long few weeks.

 

Lizzy watched as he hurried across the courtyard in the cold night air and tapped in the code which gave him access to the north staircase. Harriet was already waiting for him at the top of the staircase, eager to see her dad after the long separation. As much as technology made it easier for the duo to keep in touch, Skype didn’t really replace being close to each other in flesh and bone. She walked into the kitchen and made coffee, tossing a few biscuits onto a plate and planning on making herself scarce.

He bowled through the door of the apartment as he always did and plonked himself on the sofa, with Harriet following behind carrying a bag of doughnuts that he had picked up from the motorway services. They switched on the television, chatting and talking and catching up with each other. She was always so amazed at how similar they were, the same mannerisms manifesting themselves so clearly now that she saw them both together, the way they both spoke with their mouths full – eager to eat and tell the world a story, how they crossed their legs in the same direction, or placed one arm behind the head and onto the opposite shoulder as they concentrated. Lizzy disappeared upstairs to finish her book, leaving the two Wickhams to catch up. 

The television was on a low murmur, the lights lowered apart from the gentle glow of the reading lamp that hovered over the couch where she was sitting. He padded softly down the winding wooden staircase, his fingers grazing the rough finish of the wall as it curled into the living room. He had wandered down this staircase so many times; back when they had been children, sneaking up into the forbidden storage area and onto the roof, finding treasures and secrets, and then when they were teenagers; drinking and smoking, hanging over the balustrade laughing. And then on a dark, stormy night, when the wind was howling against the sash windows, rattling through the house like a freight train, he had knocked on her door, could hear Harriet through the wood, scared by the weather and the rumble of the thunder seething ominously across the peaks, and they had sat with her until she slept, before wrapping their arms around each other. That had been the beginning of part two of their story, the tale that they had been writing since they were small; a story that had now ended.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” He asked softly.

She looked up and nodded, closing her book before following him into the kitchen. He boiled the kettle and warmed the pot as she put two slices of bread in the toaster.

“Toast is always a brilliant idea,” he agreed, his arm gently grazing the base of her back as he reached into the fridge for the milk and passed her the butter.

“Are you sure you’re okay having full-fat butter and not avocado spread,” she joked, a faint smiled on her lips, and he grinned at her as he poured the tea.

They walked back into the front room, taking seats on opposite couches, munching on toast and slurping on tea.

“So, Harriet tells me that the book is doing well,” he stated as he brushed toast crumbs from his jumper, crossing his legs as he sat up on the couch.

“Yes,” she enthused. “I can’t quite believe it…”

The book of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy’s letters – ‘Most Ardently – the true  story of Darcy and Elizabeth’- had immediately become a bestseller, remaining at the top of the charts for three months – Lizzy had crafted an amazing narrative out of their letters and the result was a story that was truly real; heartbreaking, uplifting, inspiring and ultimately true. Together with Maggie, Joyce had convinced the big bosses at the HHS to allow rare pictures and portraits from the archives to be reproduced within it and the book was filled with images of the Darcy family, including a photograph of elderly Mabel Darcy, which had found in an auction on eBay and bid on ferociously . The sales of the book had raised enough money to repair the roof and allowed Paddock Cottage – childhood home of the dastardly George Wickham – to be restored and re-opened on the visitors’ trail. The letters from Elizabeth to Jane had somewhat vindicated Wickham, and Maggie had nearly cried when she had read the first of Lizzy’s many edits, thanking her for putting right what Jane Austen had got so very wrong.

“Proud of you, Lizard,” he uttered, draining the last dregs of tea from his mug. “You were always wasted in a law office.”

“Well, I’m glad you approve,” she smiled. “Maybe it can be your sequel!”

“Let me get this one out of the way first…are you coming to the premiere?” He looked up at her expectantly.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she grabbed her cup and his, gestured that she was making a drink and walked back into the kitchen. “Linda has managed to get me an amazing dress – Alexander McQueen! I’d offer you a biscuit but I’m on a diet, so I can fit into the bloody thing!’

There was a rattle of the front door and Imogen walked in, followed by Sam – one of the under-gardeners – it was late, and they hadn’t been expecting an audience, Sam fumbled a kiss as Imogen turned around quickly, distracted by the noise, and his kiss ended up on her shoulder.

“Erm… hello… didn’t expect you to be still here” She walked over to Matthew who rose to greet her, planting an air kiss on her cheek. “thought jet lag would have got you.”

“No, but your sister has been plying me with carbs, so my personal trainer will be pissed once I get back home,” he looked at Lizzy, who had come back through with more tea, with a cheeky glint in his eye.

 “I’ll get off now,” Sam stammered from the doorway, where he had stood awkward and silent. Imogen walked back to him, ushering him out of the door so that they could say their goodbyes.

Matthew took a seat next to Lizzy on the old red sofa where they had made so many memories and mistakes. “That seems to be going well,” he laughed as he dunked a rich tea into his mug. He reached over and turned the TV off, clicking on iPod that was next to the couch and turning it to random.

“Yes,” Lizzy smiled knowingly. “She seems happier in Derbyshire, I think. She enrolled herself in college, and I think she might have a boyfriend given how many times he ends up here.”

Almost on cue, Imogen entered again and looked at them both sheepishly before announcing that she was going to bed.

“I had lunch with Benn yesterday.”

He eyed her, trying to gauge her reaction; he knew her better than he knew himself sometimes, had spent years reading and judging and trying to second guess what she was feeling.

“Who is he with this week?” she said, not wanting to look up, not wanting to acknowledge the look. 

“She’s called Natasha,” he explained. “He’s bringing her to the premiere – the London one at least. They’re flying over tomorrow.” He took a sip of his coffee, studied her again. “Will you be okay with that?”

Benn Williams had dated voraciously over the last year, Matthew had met them all in various forms and various guises, and they all had one thing in common, they were all pale imitations of Elizabeth Darcy. Francesca had dark curls, but nothing else to recommend her. Sasha wore petticoats in the middle of summer, sweating profusely as they ate lunch on the terrace at Spago. Marilyn was an attorney, snapping at the waiter and making disparaging comments. The latest, Natasha, bore more than a passing resemblance to Lizzy – the same height, the same hair, even the same laugh if you listened carefully – and Benn seemed to like her a lot, even if everyone who met her thought she was a little bit odd.

He knew that Benn had contacted Lizzy a lot during the last few days of filming, when she had been in London and he in Derbyshire, powerless to do anything, and he saw the chemistry between them on film when he had been editing the Netherfield Ball scene. As he had sat in the air-conditioned comfort of the editing suite with Thelma and Dylan, piecing together the intricate jigsaw of shots, the key pieces of the story, he could see the small glances and looks between his close friend and the mother of his child. They were unnoticeable to anyone else, but he could see the tiny sparks of something there, recognised the way she looked at Benn because it had been the way she used to look at him.

He wasn’t sure what had happened with Benn and Lizzy, he remembered he had mentioned to Benn one night, offhand, as they drank in the small bar after filming ‘A Peculiar Good’ that she was emotionally closed off; it had been a few weeks after they had called it all off, for what they had thought was the final time, and he had been angry with her, petulantly throwing out comments like a child. He hoped that Benn hadn’t taken that too seriously. It was true that she took her time to commit to anything or anyone; but it was because she weighed up every outcome before deciding on any course of action, and that was because of her legal background, not because of any deep-seated flaw in her personality.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” She scoffed, “Benn Williams is nothing to me.”

“Don’t try and bullshit me, Lizard,” he warned, “I saw the way you looked at him… I saw the way he looked at you… I might be a lot of things, but I’m not blind.” He grabbed a biscuit from the plate, “have you called him?”

“He asked me not to.”

“You might want to do it anyway,” he said offhandedly.

“Why?”

“All of this stuff with Natasha is bullshit – just timewasting… because in all the time I’ve known him, and I’ve known him a long time, I’ve never seen him laugh as much as when he was with you. That counts for something, that’s what he is waiting for. You’re the film, she’s just the trailers…”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not,” he knew he wasn’t, but she eyed him with suspicion anyway. “He’s going to be back at Pemberley soon. He’s doing the research bit of that ancestry programme… Story of My Life?; I think they might want to film some of it here with him being Mr Darcy and all that.”

Matthew didn’t know the ins and out of the discoveries Benn had made with the CBS genealogy expert, but he was determined to push Lizzy back into the periphery of Benn’s attentions. The first week after the story had broken had been horrendous for both Benn and Madeleine – a sudden influx of press attention that neither had expected, dredging up recent heartache and old issues. He knew Benn had been upset and angry, had shouted and screamed, but he knew it had been out of frustration than anything else, knew that he had been on ‘damage control’ with the publicist, knew that his agent had planned every move. And right now, Matthew knew that Benn was tired and alone; filming ‘Lilac’, a quirky arthouse movie with no budget, in downtown Los Angeles and dating anyone, everyone.

 “He still hates me, so I don’t see why I would call him.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

He saw her soften, perhaps thinking that maybe it could be different. He wanted to plant the seed. They would be good for each other, he thought. He could see them together in his mind’s eye and they looked right; Benn needed someone to laugh with, and Lizzy needed someone to remind her that she didn’t have to do it all alone. He slipped on his shoes and put on his coat, his driver was still waiting downstairs, and it was only a short trip back to the comfort of the Alveston Arms and the warmth of his girlfriend. Lizzy stood at the door as they shared a comfortable hug and he kissed her gently on the forehead.

He turned the brass lock of the door and walking out into the cold frostiness of the hallway.

“Please call him,” he embraced her quickly again, “you must take chances sometimes, Lizzy, you have to let someone in.’ He kissed her on the cheek, “I want to see you happy.”

Matthew began the jog down three floors of stairs. He was convinced that this was more than a fading attraction, more than a schoolgirl crush. Lizzy was in love with Benn Williams, if only she would admit it to herself.

The journey was quick, and it was relief to get in out of the cold nights air and into the warm bed; Tamsin pulled his arm over her sleepily as he clambered in and he was asleep before his head hit the pillow, the insomnia that had tormented him for the past fifteen years finally defeated with the quick flick of a divorce court lawyers pen.

*

Benn stood in the sunshine of Santa Monica; he had been in LA for too long now, accustomed to the heat, noticing the drop in temperature, wrapping himself up in a hoodie and boots even though if it were this hot in England he would be walking around in shorts. Natasha had stopped to buy them ice cream at Soda Jerks, but he continued without her walking down the flight of wooden steps, holding onto the smooth metal of the handrail. The platform was busy with every slice of society folding up yoga mats and chatting amongst themselves as the session finished and he found himself walking against the flow of people, wanting to reach the end of the pier and feel the cool breeze of the Pacific against his face. He had grown his beard again, despite what Lucy had said to him. He liked how it made him look like every other middle-aged man with a twenty-five-year-old girlfriend, and it was less permanent than the huge breakup tattoos favoured by his contemporaries. They could walk about downtown shopping for groceries holding hands and no-one noticed, and he found that he liked being able to grab a coffee or nip to the bookstore without having to worry about waiting photographers.

He leaned over the balustrade of the pier, looking over at the crashing waves of the water below, white horses galloping towards an invisible finish line. He still had the little pineapple in his pocket, still used it as a lucky charm to reassure him when the struggles with his inner demons threatened to take over, but it also reminded him of her a little bit too much. Pulling out the tangled chain, he rubbed the links between his fingers, holding it tentatively over the water. It would be easy to drop it, to let it be swallowed by the ocean and disappear forever. But he couldn’t do it, not understanding why the copper pineapple was so hard to discard.

“Benn! Over here!”

The polished Washington tones of the curly-haired, super clever Natasha drifted over to him on the breeze, he turned around and saw her holding two sundaes in plastic cups and smiling at him broadly from the top of the steps. He quickly gathered the chain up, tucking it back into his pocket before walking over to her and taking her hand as they sauntered down the promenade, eating ice-cream and talking very seriously about grown up things.

She grabbed onto his arm slightly tighter than he would have liked.


	55. Millicent - 1940

The young boy looked up at her with eyes as wide as saucers, he couldn’t have been much more than seven, dressed in his smart shorts and a cream hand-knitted jumper with a red stripe at the bottom, he scratched the back of his leg with the sharp buckle of his shoe and instead of relieving his itch, it had just caused a scratch which hurt more that the itch had itched. He had his hands in his pockets, holding tightly to a small, polished pebble that his mother had given to him off the beach that morning as the sun was rising. She had smelled like toasted almonds and cigarettes, and the faint scent of perfume infused in the comforting blue jumper that she had been wearing as she hugged him tightly in their house on Fleetwood Road.

“Can you play cricket?” The lady in the black suit asked him sharply. “Your jumper looks like one my son used to wear when he was at school.”

She spoke funny, he thought, like the woman off the wireless who introduced the songs his mother sang to when she thought nobody was about. The boy shook his head quickly, his hands nervous as he picked the skin around his fingers. He nervously looked around the room, hearing the ominous tick of the huge clock at the opposite end. The room was cold, even in September and he wished that the large fireplace was lit, although it was so big that he suspected the heat would be immense. His attention moved back to the lady in front of him, he had noticed her hair first; had never seen a lady with such yellow hair, curled on top of her head, her red lips pursed as she continued to question him. 

“Would you like to learn how to play cricket, young man?”

He nodded quickly, as she wrote his answer down on the precisely cut, official looking card; the kind that had been neatly printed the year before in preparation for this very event.

“And what is your name” she smiled kindly. “I can’t very well call you 27486 for the duration, can I?”

She said something under her breath to the sour-looking old lady sitting next to her, and he was fascinated by the scarf she was wearing, it was made from an animal he didn’t know and the cold dead eyes of whatever it was looked at him glassily. He had never seen one of those in Southend, but then again, he had never seen a house this big back home in Essex either, the room he was standing in was twice the size of his own entire house, and he was including the yard and privy in those calculations. He was impressed with the height of it, a single room much taller than his own house; he felt Lilliputian in scale, surely this was a house for Gulliver. The woman coughed gently, prompting him to answer in the polite way used by teachers, rather than the usual ‘Oi, will you bloody answer me?’ used by his father and, on occasion, his mother.

“I’m Thomas Bingley, Ma’am,” he said in a small voice.

“Bingley, eh? Well, that’s a name I think we will remember,” she chuckled. He smiled wanly, not understanding the joke. 

They had brought the evacuees up on the bus from Lambton, there were twelve of them in total adding to the five that had already been sent from Manchester, more than enough for a cricket team, she thought. Earlier that day forty-seven children had marched across St Pancras Station with a banner emblazoned with the crest of Earls Hall school; they had been handed two sticks of barley sugar for the adventure – it was always called an adventure – and it was only as the train was pulling away that they realised that their parents were crying as they waved goodbye.

The twelve children billeted to Pemberley were accompanied by their schoolmaster, a broad, handsome gentleman called Jonathan Sykes. He originally hailed from Preston, but had moved to Southend to be with a woman he didn’t end up marrying. He had been seriously injured in the last war and was consequently excused from service the second time around, wearing a patch to cover the hole where his eye once was, the residual scars streaking across the right-hand side of his face like a roadmap. Millicent discovered that he was good at cricket and had studied at Brasenose College with her brother, George. They shared memories of their lost companion, wondering what he would be doing now, and they became firm friends, talking about anything and everything as they worked the grounds, digging up the intricate 16th century flowerbeds to plant potatoes and carrots.

Hitler’s bombs failed to materialise, and by the summer of 1940 most of the children had been summoned back home by their parents. Only two boisterous chattery girls, Laura and Charlotte Jones remained, along with Thomas Bingley. He was getting good at cricket now and could either be found in the grounds practising or in the library, absorbing as much information as he could, as he dusted the books as part of his daily chores, lining up the Pemberley bulls in a row. Mrs Reynolds, observing the Jones’ girls making the fire, scolded them for constantly chattering and not concentrating on their work. ‘If thou don’t shut thee rattle. I’ll belt thee tabs!’ she bellowed in the strong Derbyshire accent that she only ever used in front of them and never in front of Lady Millicent.

The news of The Blitz reached Pemberley in dribs and drabs, for the most part they were sheltered away in the grounds and it was only occasionally that they heard the faint drone of bombers overhead making their way to Manchester or Liverpool. Then the casualties started, and the three Pemberley evacuees were moved to the Wyatt Tower, where Mrs Reynolds stood guard over their small rooms at the top of the house, the beds in the long gallery filled by the wounded young men who were shipped in from the battlefields of France to the makeshift military hospital at Pemberley with alarming regularity. Thomas often found Lady Darcy in her study – the compact panelled room that adjoined her bedroom - she was often tired after so much organising and planning, and he would sneak down to the kitchen to bring her tea and a biscuit, quietly knocking on the door before he entered. Sometimes she would ask him to join her and they would put a record on the gramophone, dancing around the small room as she lit a cigarette whilst pulling him into a twirl. Her hair wasn’t as yellow now, he noticed, and small flecks of silver were pushed back behind her ears, but she still wore red lipstick and smelled like his mother.


	56. Lizzy

Harriet had woken her up at ten past six with a nudge, they were in the Harlequin Penthouse of The Dorchester, it had cost a small fortune, but Matthew had paid and said it was worth it for them to soak in Elizabeth Taylor’s glorious pink bathtub and look out on the winter splendour of the capital before them from their own private terrace. Winston had always loved to stay at The Dorchester, and Lizzy found that her family name caused some ripples of recognition amongst older members of staff who remembered her grandad with fondness.

The suite itself came with butler service, but Harriet had already made coffee in the small service kitchen, encouraging Imogen to grunt herself awake by opening the doors to the balcony and letting an icy waft of cold December air flood in. At nine o’clock sharp, the first of the team of polishers and pluckers arrived and the ritual began. Lizzy had read once, on the Instagram post of a famous actress, that it took a village to get red carpet ready, and it was true. She had completely underestimated the amount of time it would take, and it was only now, seven hours after they had started, that the Lady Elizabeth, the Lady Imogen and the Hon. Harriet Darcy were ready to glide into the waiting car. 

As Lizzy looked in the floor length mirror, she couldn’t quite believe that she was looking at her own reflection. The dress had a tight bodice, and pulled in all her wobbly bits, thanks to the amazing sucky-in underwear that she was wearing like a shield. It had little capped sleeves with sequins that looked itchy, but were smooth on her skin, and the skirt flared out from her waist, over 10 metres of organza cascading to the floor, embroidered with tiny golden deer. She had been bronzed and highlighted so that her arms looked luminous and toned, and she had no idea what they had done to her face, but she looked like a real-life Snapchat filter. Her father had pulled some jewels from the deposit box at Coutts, a glittering selection of necklaces and bracelets that had belonged to the women of the Darcy family for his daughters and granddaughter to wear, although Lizzy knew that his main reason for visiting the bank was to carefully collect a very important piece of jewellery.

The Duke of Derbyshire had proposed to the love of his life at Mr Darcy’s Pond, up out in the park one dusky summer evening. Hugh Darcy had thought about it a lot, wondering if he should even consider asking her to be his wife - he was quite happy to spend his evenings holed up with her in the small cottage on the outskirts of the estate. They had spent nearly nine months doing normal couple things, and she told him off for leaving socks on the living room floor or feeding the dog too many scraps from the table. He loved having a normal family life, Joyce’s sons, James and Gareth, came over with their families every other Sunday and he found that there was great comfort in washing up the dishes whilst they all played and fought over Monopoly after dinner, as she stood beside him drying the plates and humming.

He often found himself glancing over at her like a lovelorn schoolboy, and she would look back at him shyly before cracking a tea towel whip on his bum with a carefully timed attack. He hadn’t bought a ring, didn’t want to present her with something from Tiffany or De Beers, she would consider them too flashy, too much. Instead he knew that he needed to outwardly declare his devotion with something steeped in the history of the family she loved and which he hoped she would want to be a part of.

The ring he had chosen for her once belonged to his great grandmother, Cecily Darcy. Unlike the famed Victorian party hostess herself, the ring was modest; with a large square emerald at its centre, surrounded by smaller diamonds. He hadn’t needed to say the words, they had already been hanging unspoken in the air; quietly, carefully and with gentle kisses to his face, Joyce Hutchinson, crying happy tears, accepted his proposal. Their own relationship was now a small, but intrinsic part of the story that Pemberley would continue to weave long after they had gone.

Lizzy hadn’t known which jewels to choose; they all seemed so grand and so heavy. In the end she had chosen a simple hair barrette that had been made from Lady Anne’s necklace – the grand Georgian choker separated and redesigned for one fashionable duchess to wear - the diamonds and sapphires sparkled in the middle of her tamed curls, which were now straightened into the most elegant of up-dos. She stepped softly into the glitter encrusted shoes and walked into the living room of the Penthouse. Harriet was dressed in a stunning pink empire cut gown, with a diamante band pulled across her waist, her own curls tied back into a fishtail plait, dotted with tiny pearls throughout, and an antique hairclip from the vault, dotted with tiny rubies in the shapes of flowers entwined into her hair.

“Oh Harriet,” Lizzy murmured. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

“You too, Mum,” she walked over and nuzzled herself under her mum’s arm, feeling safe and excited and a whole other host of things.

“Woah, watch what you’re doing, Lizard – you’ll ruin all this hard work!”

Imogen, with her legs long and lean like a baby gazelle, was wearing the highest of Louboutins and a tasselled twenties style dress that had been edged with an iridescent thread, catching the light in the most magnificent of ways. Her hair, now its natural warm blonde, was curled and pinned and she looked as if Vivienne Westwood had kitted out the cast of Chicago, all Gatsby but with the hint of a hidden dangerous underbelly. It had been a year since she had left London, and she was preparing for glorious comeback, but it would be different this time. She was clean now; she was in control and she knew deep down in her heart that she would never lose herself again.

Lizzy thought that film premieres would be a lot more glamorous than they turned out to be; whilst she did capture the attention of the press standing awkwardly on the red carpet, they were more interested in real celebrities despite taking a few pictures of the stunning silver gown. The photographers did, however, go wild for Lady Imogen – who hadn’t been seen for months – and the barrage of noise and lights was immense. Lizzy felt Harriet’s arm on hers and they were, all three, whisked inside by assistants and handlers.

‘Lady Elizabeth, what a fabulous dress!” called a busty sparkly orange lady from the other side of the room, as she pushed her way over. “I’m Wendy and I will be pointing you in the right direction for the evening.”

She began to lead them over to a sectioned off area, where Harriet recognised a few reality stars and poked Lizzy to draw attention to them being in the presence of actual famous people. There was a loud hum of people as the room began to fill – the Odeon in Leicester Square held over two thousand people and only a very small percentage of these had anything to do with the film, she was in the VIP section, but the room was also full of competition winners, regular people who had bought tickets, HHS staff for their co-operation – suddenly she felt overdressed and wished that she was on the other side of the velvet rope.

Despite spending most of her childhood on film sets and fraternising with film stars of varying brightness, Matthew Wickham’s daughter got positively starstruck by people from Big Brother or The Only Way Is Essex. Imogen spotted Jonty, the son of the bread billionaire, with whom she had a televised tryst during her brief stint on Made in Chelsea. She grabbed Harriet’s hand and pulled her over to meet him, her niece blushing furiously as they all posed for selfies.  Abandoned by Harriet and Imogen, Lizzy pushed her way to the bar – not an easy thing in a massive dress – and ordered herself a pink gin cocktail, which was conveniently called ‘Wet White Shirt.

She was messaging Debs and sipping it through a straw when the roar of applause and cheers from outside caught her attention. Craning her neck over the sea of people, she saw Benn Williams and a young woman with curls in a red dress walking in, arm in arm. He looked so different – more polished, much more handsome even without the sideburns – wearing a tuxedo and a smile he was completely, totally, every inch the Hollywood star and she felt her stomach do a flip. She was torn between wanting to hide from him whilst at the same time wanting him to acknowledge her. Ordering another cocktail at the bar, she texted Deb for moral support.

D: Just stand there and look fabulous, maybe he will come over and say hello.

L: Or maybe he will just ignore me all night ☹

D: Or maybe he will run over and sweep you up into his arms and whisk you away.

L: Or maybe he will take his girlfriend home and propose to her.

D: Why do you think that because he is shagging her that he is going to marry her? Your mind goes from sex to marriage in a single bounce. Hehehe. Bounce.

L: Two gins in now, better go and sit down. Talk later. 

D: Remember my goodie bag! xx

 Lizzy turned her phone off and signed it over to the security staff, who also wanded her before letting her pass through into the auditorium. The screen was playing a phenomenal drone-based advert for Pemberley itself, which was part of the Historical House Society’s promotional campaign to capitalise on the film. Directed to her seat, she could hardly take her eyes off the screen as amazing sweeping shots of the estate were shown on the screen, accompanied by a soaring, bespoke soundtrack. She never forgot how special her family estate was, but sometimes she needed reminding of how vast and varied it was. As she was finding her seat, marked ‘Lady Elizabeth Darcy’ she noticed the curly haired woman in the red dress walking up the aisle. She looked quickly at the seats either side of her own – on her left was ‘Hon. Harriet Darcy’ and on the right the seat next to her was marked with a sign – ‘Benn Williams’. 

Benn walked down the aisle, gently excusing himself past those already seated, Harriet and Imogen jokingly tutted loudly at him and he grinned at them both. Lizzy had to stand to let him past her metres of organza, as he squeezed past her, avoiding her eye, he was so close that she could smell his aftershave, could smell the faint tinge of alcohol on his breath. He sat down in the seat next to her, trying to avoid all bodily contact, as if she were a crazed fan that he didn’t want to encourage.

She loved the film, laughing at Mrs Bennet, crying at the proposal scene and looking over at Imogen open-mouthed during a new and improved Wet Shirt Scene. Then there were the last few minutes and Harriet’s line, accompanied by her daughter hiding behind her popcorn, shrinking with embarrassment. But during all of this she was thinking of the small patch of skin behind his ear, and the moan he had made when she had touched it with her lips. At one point his finger had accidentally grazed hers, and she sensed that little spark again; it was small, but powerful, and she knew that he felt it because he moved his hand away far too quickly.


	57. Millicent - 1945

Thomas Bingley had been looking through some old atlases that he had found whilst rummaging about in the tower, where he was trying to keep out of Lady Millicent’s way. A man from the War Office had come to visit and so Pemberley was stood to attention. The gold bull on the spine that he recognised from the books in the library was tarnished but still guarding the flaking cover and the fading illustrated pages. The letter was hidden between a map of Egypt and Persia and he removed it slowly, inhaling the musky smell.

_My Dearest Elizabeth,_

_If this poorly formed letter is now in your hands, then I have taken my leave of this earth and left you alone in it. Do not cry, my dearest, for I would hate to think that sad thoughts of me would cause a frown upon your face when our love walks around in each of our children – the wonderful inheritance that we have bequeathed to Pemberley, and our grandchildren who will continue the legacy that we created._

_Ours has been a wonderful life together, through the best of times and the saddest of times, but everything bad was easier to overcome with you by my side, and every beautiful occasion was made sweeter knowing that I had your hand to hold._

_I am so grateful that you gave me the opportunity to prove to you every day that I was the gentleman worthy of you, and I sincerely hope that this life of ours has been as wonderful for you as it has been for me. We have built a strong family who have known what it is to grow up in a house filled with love and laughter, and my dearest wish is that there will always be Darcys at Pemberley, in the home we have loved so dearly, to continue our legacy._

_Please know that however my end has occurred, my last thought will have been of you – of you dancing and laughing with a fire in your heart and a spark in your eyes. You may now be a grand duchess, but to me you will always be the impertinent girl with the fine eyes who captured my heart across a crowded assembly room._

_Elizabeth Bennet, I have loved you, most ardently, until the end of my days and will continue to love you until, by the grace of God, we meet again._

_My heart always has been and always will be yours._

_Darcy_

He ran his finger over the parts where the words had become smudged, seeping into the page, the sharp lines of the letters blotting into the thick paper. Thomas was old enough to know that this letter had been cried over, teary drops of water falling onto the parchment and disguising the words – he squinted, deciphering what it said before folding the letter back up and carefully placing it back between the pages. He carried the atlas down the curve of the staircase, the woven cover accidentally bouncing off the plaster, before putting it back in its place in the library and returning the gilded bull to its literary herd. Inside, folded carefully, a lost treasure waiting to be rediscovered.


	58. Lizzy

The yellow Mini darted up the driveway of Pemberley, over the hill, curling around the bridge, through the tall trees, fast and smooth in the curve of the landscape towards the house itself. Above them the soft twilight of the stars illuminated the way, as the four women inside sang ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ as loudly as they could in the vast expanse of moorland that lay beneath the stately gaze of The Cage. As they pulled into the visitor car park, they disturbed a few of the ancient red deer, who always ventured down after nightfall, perhaps trying to reclaim their lost land. The car came to an abrupt stop outside the small information kiosk, the doors opened, and Imogen fell out into a heap onto the floor.

“Fucks sake!!” she said exasperatedly as she struggled with the car seat, trying to let Harriet out of the back, as the smooth upholstery banged against her hip.

“Calm down, Imogen,” Harriet warned as got out of the car and dragged her aunt to her feet. Reaching the smooth path, the girls paused for a moment to remove their shoes and then began the slow walk up the steep hill to the house itself. Arm in arm, they began to sing again, their voices ringing out like a siren’s call in the dark emptiness of the valley.

It was May, and the air around Pemberley was filled with smell of the summer ahead; freshly mown grass, magnolias and the warmth of the air itself. In four weeks’ time, the Duke of Derbyshire was marrying for the third time, and this time he knew it was for real. The future Mrs Darcy, as she was choosing to be known for professional reasons, hadn’t wanted a big fuss making, however, this evening had been her unofficial hen party. Organised in the ‘Georgiana’ suite of the Alveston Arms, her future stepdaughters had arranged for family, friends and staff members, past and present, to attend and all were there to celebrate with Joyce, who had been overcome with emotion as she had been led into the room which had been decorated with soft pink roses, white lilies and dozens of fairy lights. It had taken three glasses of prosecco before she had finally relaxed and then danced with everyone, thanking them all profusely for attending, before falling asleep on one of the plush purple sofas, the glittery willy bopper headband still bouncing on her head. The willy headbands had been Imogen’s idea and she had been immensely proud of them, whilst Lizzy had shuddered at the thought and tried to accidentally leave the bag behind in the flat.

“You did really well tonight,” Maggie said, as they followed the younger women up the hill, “I think she really enjoyed it.”

Lizzy laughed, “she won’t be saying that tomorrow when Imogen puts all of those pictures on Instagram.”

“Maybe not,” Maggie agreed. She stopped for moment, a few steps behind, taking her time to look up at the Derbyshire sky. “I had forgotten how dark it gets here.”

Lizzy stopped too, deciding to sit down on the path. They were halfway up the steep hill that led the way home. Maggie followed her cue and sat too, and they both looked up at the cerulean sky, which was quietly dotted with stars.

“I miss you,” she said softly. Maggie looked at her and then pulled her in for a hug.

“I miss you too,” she said. “As great as London is, it’s not Pemberley.”

“Pemberley is home, Mags, it will always be here when you decide to come back,” she reached into one of the bags they had brought back from the party and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in tin foil. “Cake?”

There was a silence again. Maggie knew that Lizzy was hiding something from her, she could always tell, would always know. She simply had to wait long enough for it all to come flooding out.

*

Benn left the after-party of the London premiere with thoughts of her in his head and the shape of her embossed on him as he pounded down the stairs of the Shoreditch hotel, into his car and back to Mayfair where Natasha was waiting for him in the suite on the 4th floor. She had been there; sparkling, laughing, charming everyone and not looking at him once. His girlfriend had left early, plagued by the noise and the raucous dancing, blaming a headache for her early departure, and he was there; desperately wanting to tell her that he had missed her. Wanting to say sorry.

The car journey back hadn’t given him enough time to process the thoughts that had been racing through his mind since he had last seen her on the terrace, standing in that dress, looking like Cinderella running away from the ball before midnight, blissfully unaware of him looking at her and longing for her. All he could think about was Lizzy, stood there in diamonds and organza, trembling with cold; beautiful, silly, caring, soft, warm Elizabeth, who had haunted his dreams for the past year, whose face he had seen glimpses of in every woman he had dated.

As he walked inside, with a nod from the doorman and the soft shuffle of his oxfords on the tiled floors, he knew that he couldn’t go straight upstairs; couldn’t face Natasha and her questions, her rage. He headed towards the sanctuary of the bar, it was an instinct he had managed to subdue for nearly nine months, but the occasional glass of wine here, pushed on him by playful hands, the times she had offered him a beer to wind down in the evening, and he had succumbed, slowly slipping on a slope that was more treacherous than ever, and he could feel his step gradually failing. She was waiting for him, impatiently texting – he could feel the pulsating vibrate of the phone in his pocket - and she would be getting gradually more annoyed. It would result in an argument, where they would shout and argue, and she would throw things before softly turning to him and kissing him roughly as they fell onto the bed and had cool, technical make-up sex which he wouldn’t enjoy, but which seemed to placate her enough to make her more pleasant the following day.

Natasha could be nice; she could sparkle, and sometimes she made him laugh. It was only a small feeling he had, but when he was with her he felt as if she saw him as a trophy to be displayed. There was something about it that left a bitter taste in his mouth every time she kissed him in public, or when he noticed how tightly she held onto his arm in front of photographers.

He ordered a whisky, the harsh honey sweetness of it dripping down his throat like nectar and before he knew it, he was ordering another. He heard the voice in his head; warning him against it, and he ignored it. Doubles now; another, another. The world was blurring slightly, and he moved to the slippery comfort of a booth. Soft jazz was playing in the background and, unknowingly, he obnoxiously clapped as the pianist finished his rendition of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. People were looking at him now, small ripples of recognition, and he posed for a selfie with a gaggle of leggy hens, chatted about the cricket with a group of City boys, told an inappropriate joke to a couple on a date who awkwardly laughed until he wandered off, hiding again in the glorious sanctuary of the Bar at the Dorchester.

He needed fresh air now, and maybe a cigarette.

Maybe two cigarettes. And a kebab.

Making it look like very hard work, he pushed through the revolving door of the entrance, and there she was, smoking a cigarette, diamonds twinkling in her hair and sparkly shoes on her feet. He suddenly felt a strange longing to see the bee shoes which made her wiggle when she walked, hips swaying from side to side like the animated temptress from a 1950s cartoon. Surely this meant something, surely if he believed in such nonsense this would be a sign.

“Lizzy,” he said, in a whisper she could barely hear. “I meant to tell you before… you look beautiful.”

She did a double take as she turned around and dropped the cigarette on the floor, stubbing it out with super-high heels and a twist of the ankle. Look up at him she did a little smile, looking like a curly haired Princess Diana.

“All a grand façade of contouring and Spanx, I’m afraid… You know I don’t look like this in real life,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh.

She looked better in real life, he thought. The dress was amazing, the hair and make up immaculate, but he wanted her fresh-faced and mad haired; curled up next to him on the sofa in pyjamas with llamas on them, feeding him cheesecake, teasing his acting methods.

“Are you not cold?” he asked softly. He could see the little hairs on her arms, standing to attention like a regiment of foot soldiers.

“Absolutely freezing,” she shivered. “and I look like the prow of a ship.” 

She looked up at him, her eyebrow arched and, a soft smile crossing her lips, which he acknowledged and returned.

“Do you fancy a drink?” He gestured towards the impressive doorway, “I know a place.”

Nodding she reached out her hand and he took it in his own; as he did he realised that Lizzy Darcy still pulsed around him like a heartbeat. All through the film, when she was sitting next to him, he could hear her laugh, could practically hear her smiling and he wanted to do was lean over, smile at her and thrown popcorn down the front of her ten-thousand-dollar dress. He knew that she would have giggled and then thrown it back at him. Instead he had sat there awkward and stiff, pulling his hand back when he felt that familiar shot of lightning run up his arm.

Unexpectedly, she led the way across the foyer to the lift and he followed her into the aristocratic grandeur of the Harlequin Suite. This should have been his room, but he had been relocated at the last minute, much to Natasha’s chagrin. She has complained about it for a whole hour until he got bored of listening to her nasal tones and walked out without saying goodbye. Now here he was with Lizzy, who was unclipping her hair and removing her make-up, the gentle swish of the gown following her as she glided across the room dropping diamonds like glitter on the marble worksurfaces.

“Lizzy,” he said, as he sat on the couch watching her toilette. “I know it wasn’t you.”

She eyed him, removed her earrings, and made a phone call to the butler for coffee. “Of course it wasn’t me,” she frowned, replacing the receiver.

“It was a… it was a man from my AA meeting. Sold the story for hundred quid and a bottle of Gordon’s.”

She gestured for him to come over and stood with her back to him, he unhooked the buttons at the back of her dress, pulled down the zip and she walked into another room. He was acutely aware of the soft golden hue of her skin, the smell of ginger biscuits and regret.

 

It felt like a hundred years passed before she returned wearing pyjamas with elephants on, her face stripped of make-up, her hair pulled into a loose bun. A tray had magically appeared, complete with a cafetière and a plate full of tiny, intricate cakes.

“It took me a while to forgive you for that one,” she sat down next to him on the couch, her legs folded under her. “But I figured it out, I mean… we figured it out, Imogen and me. She was so upset, she thought… I thought… we…” She glanced up at him, he saw uncertainty wash across her face. “Anyway,” she smiled. “Here we are, all forgiven, I hope.”

He took a mouthful of the coffee, the dark Italian blend was strong, the kind of coffee that makes you feel like you have already smoked; he hadn’t forgotten about the cigarette he promised himself.

“I just… I didn’t know what to think. The only person who knew was you, but after we spoke I knew it couldn’t have been you…What would you have gained?”

She eyed him sadly, “you should have asked me that at the time rather than sleeping with every woman on the west coast.”

He felt his stomach drop, “it wasn’t every woman. It was two women.”

“It felt like every woman.” Lizzy smiled softly, “I spent the last year thinking that you hated me…”

“I never hated you. I was mad at you, and I was angry,” he moved closer to her now. “But hating you was never the problem, if I had hated you it would have been so much easier.”

She examined his face; his hair was blonde again now, and the little curls that she had come to love were smoothed down. They sat there, both staring straight ahead; the whisky of earlier was wearing off now and he suddenly felt vulnerable.

“Lizzy…I’m…I’m seeing someone…,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness, realising that it had been all over the gossip rags and she would have known, _surely_ , she must have known.  He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, but wasn’t sure what he could say to her, what he could do.

“I know,” she said with the false brightness that he recognised instantly. Always trying to put on a show, always performing a role. She was just a better actor than he was.

“But… I…” he found her hand was already in his, and he focused on the ring she wore on her finger. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lizzy.” He fell over towards her, his head falling against her shoulder, so he could smell the fabric softener on her clothes, the coconut oil absorbed in her skin. “I’ve made such a mess of all of this…such a fucking mess…”

 

It was 4am when he awoke to find himself in a strange room, in a strange bed, his head aching and his mouth dry. Somehow, he had managed to get undressed and put his clothes in a pile on the floor, although his jacket had been placed carefully over the chair by the window. He heard her get up, and then felt her pulling back the covers and slipping in between the crisp, cotton sheets, the gentle weight of her next to him made him feel safe. She passed him a bottle of ice-cold Evian from the bedside table and he gulped it down thirstily, emptying the bottle before lying back on the soft, feather pillows. The room was illuminated by a soft, quiet light, partly from the chinks of moonlight that were glinting through the gaps in the curtains, and partly from the lamplight shining under the gap in the door.

“Hey you,” he whispered.

“Hey…” he could see the outline of her smile. “You passed out…”

“I’m sorry.”

“There is no need for that…”

He could see the gentle jut of her chin, the frown in her brow and he leaned over tracing it with his fingertip just to make sure that it was her. He felt her retract at his touch and he moved his hand back shyly, afraid that he has crossed a line. His stomach turned again, had he misread the situation? A moment later he felt the soothing, cold palm of her hand on his cheek, her fingertip pressing teasingly on the spot behind his ear where his hair began to curl. Greedily he took her hand and kissed it, pressing his face into the back of it.

She looked nervous, he thought, but then unexpectedly, as if she had gotten caught up in a moment that she couldn’t get out of, he felt the gentle firmness of her mouth. He kissed her back deeply, feeling himself get lost in the magical wondrousness of all of this, as if he was still dreaming about her. He moved his hands onto her waist, then onto her hip, pulling her towards him so that he could feel the warmth of her against him. She put her hands on his face, dragging him back into the kiss that he didn’t want to end, then swiftly running her hands over his shoulders as she pulled him on top of her.

Under the sheets his hands moved tenderly, hesitantly, under the thin t-shirt; he felt the smoothness of her skin, the soft curve of her body. He touched every fragment of her until finally, slowly, he was moving inside her, and he felt her push against him as they held each other tightly, before falling to the sheets, sated and alive. She curled up in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, and as he drifted off to sleep, he swore to himself that he would always remember the image of her glistening up at him, the way her curls surrounded her face like a halo, the way she had bit her lip to stop from crying out.

A few hours later he awoke suddenly and dressed quickly, knowing full well that the scent of her was still lingering on his skin. He was scared to look at the number of messages that would be flashing angrily on his phone. She was still sleeping, and he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, before stroking her face gently and kissing her on the forehead. She stirred for a moment, by the time she had fallen back into a deep sleep he was gone, leaving only a handwritten note on the pillow and the pineapple necklace that had been his good luck totem, lucky charm and reminder of her for the past year.  

_Oh, I could drink a case of you, my darling, and I would still be on my feet.  B_

He gently padded out of the room, holding his shoes before taking one last glorious look back at her and closing the door. It was time, he thought, time to make this right.

_*_

“And you haven’t seen him since?” Maggie asked, as she tapped the keycode into the staircase entrance and opened the door, the gentle creak echoing around the courtyard. The house looked still and stately under the glow of the moon, the lights already burning in the flat at the top of the Wyatt tower. Lizzy shook her head slowly, before she recovered and smiled with the false face that Maggie immediately recognised.

“You don’t have to put on the Lady Darcy show for me, Lizard,” she reassured as they walked up the three flights of stairs and into the flat.

Lizzy sat down on the sofa and looked over at Maggie who was making tea in the kitchen, Imogen and Harriet had already gone to bed, leaving a trail of bags and shoes in their wake.

“It’s the not knowing what was wrong,” she played with the pineapple necklace that she found she wore every day.

“Well, anyone that hurts you is a complete dick as far as I am concerned,” she harrumphed as she poured the water. “Is he still with that Natasha person?”

She had been looking at his social media pages for the past few months now, but nothing. After the London premiere had been done with, it seemed that Benn Williams had disappeared off the face of the earth, he hadn’t even turned up for the US or Australian premieres, despite the film being a phenomenal and worldwide hit. She had asked Matthew, currently moving into a new house in Beverley Hills with Tamsin, who was the new lead in a hot LA based sitcom, but he had not heard from him since London either. She had even phoned the office of his agent in London, but even using her title hadn’t worked and she hadn’t even been able to get past the receptionist.

“No, rather nasty break up I heard.”

Maggie brought the two cups of tea over to the table and sat down, slipping off her shoes and unpinning her hair, “do you love him, Lizzy? I mean, can you imagine growing old with him?”

“Is this what you asked yourself when you finally accepted Pete’s proposal...” she said, her humour recovered. “Or were you persuaded by that massive rock on your finger?”

Maggie had dated Peter Edwards on and off for years, and Lizzy counted him as part of the family, Harriet even called him ‘Uncle Pete’. It looked as though they would never marry – Pete living in his own flat in Tooting, working as a DCI for the Metropolitan Police, and Maggie living and working at Pemberley – but they fumbled on and it seemed to work for them for a long time, until he wanted a future and a home with her, and she couldn’t find it in herself to make the leap from her comfortable existence to something new and different.

It was the loss of Pete – the temporary split which saw her crying into her coffee far more often than she liked, ignoring the sad little glances from Kate in the ticket office – that pushed her to apply for the job at Austenation and move down south. He had proposed at the top of the Eiffel Tower on the eve of her birthday with a platinum solitaire from Tiffany’s. He knew it had cost far too much money, but his mother had always told him that shrouds don’t come with pockets. They had married quickly, quietly and without any fuss in the registry office at Chelsea and then treated themselves to afternoon tea and champagne at The Ritz before texting everyone to let them know the good news.

“Lizzy,” she said with all seriousness. “Pete isn’t perfect, he can be a complete fucker sometimes, and other times I want to slap him. But I love him, so much.” She took Lizzy’s hand, squeezing it a little, “I want you to be happy.”

She rolled her eyes warningly, “I am happy.”

Maggie viewed her friend out of the corner of her eye, “Lizzy, I know that you think you’re happy, but there is more to life than Pemberley; I think you need to leave for a bit, take stock of what you actually want. Maybe travel, take some of the book money and go on an adventure somewhere. Harriet is nearly all grown up, she will be going to university soon and what are you going to do then? You can’t keep yourself busy by doing the Lady Darcy tours of the house six times a week, it’s not enough. You’ve been rattling about since you finished working.”

Lizzy deep-sighed, but not from frustration, more from knowing that Maggie was right, “Pemberley has always been the place that kept me safe.”

“It will always be your home, but you don’t have anything to prove anymore. You don’t even need to live here if you don’t want to after the wedding,” Maggie tried to reason with her. Joyce and Hugh were going to be living at the far end of the estate for most of the year and even though Hugh had been reluctant at first to make the move back to England permanent, he knew that there was no point in arguing with his fiancée, her mind had already been made up. 

“I know, and where does that leave me, Maggie?” Lizzy looked down sadly, as much as Lizzy was happy for her father, she knew that the role she had played in the story of Pemberley for nearly eighteen years was now redundant.

“You didn’t answer my question, Lizard.”

She smiled sadly, “does it matter? I can’t decide on something like that.”

“Love isn’t a decision, Lizzy,” she whined, “love is something that you can’t control, no matter how much you might want to. It’s something that you can’t describe or explain, and I know that’s hard for you.”

Lizzy rarely cried in front of anybody, not even Maggie, but she couldn’t stop the fat tears from rolling down her face. It was hard to explain what she felt for him, she couldn’t put a neat label on it and place it in a buff coloured folder, couldn’t rationalise it, no matter how hard she had tried to.  She held her breath, heartbeat in her throat, knowing that it was probably too late, that their chance had already passed them by now, that sometimes stories don’t have a happy ending, or even a resolution; that sometimes you are left hanging there at the end of the chapter as the words fade into nothingness.


	59. Mary - 1649

General George Darcy was a short, stout man with a friendly face and a gentle demeanour that belied his skill on the battlefield. He had earned himself formidable reputation during the tumultuous years of the Civil War as a fierce General and a brave warrior. His courage, valour and sheer determination to succeed had marked him out to the Duke of Newcastle, who had required his support during many key battles in the attempt to defeat the Roundhead army. Oliver Cromwell himself had singled Darcy out and focused some of his attentions to the medieval manor house, which had been targeted during the last few months when it became clear that the Royalists were not going to be triumphant.

The family had left England in the first few days of 1649, when it became clear that Charles, the proud uneasy man who tried to force his divine rule upon a tired and bankrupt country would not live long into it. As a man of twenty-two with a young bride, he had sailed from Scarborough to Hamburg, where they were lucky enough to find sanctuary with their fellow exiled natives.  He was unsure if he would ever be able to return to the country of his birth, or the green hills that he called home.

Mary Darcy, nineteen and two months wed, was hysterical for the most part of the journey. She had married George for the security he had offered, and now she found herself running away with her small dowry of jewels - her mother’s ruby ring, a sapphire locket and necklace with a silver clasp, made from three strands of pearls given to a relative by Mary, the Scottish queen, a long time ago. Her father, Henry Wharton, had fought with Prince Rupert at Marston Moor and died on the battlefield not knowing that his two sons had already suffered a similar fate. Mary’s mother, a favourite of the Queen, had sailed for France and safety, leaving her daughter to decide her own destiny. She didn’t know this man she called husband, but she did know that he was her only hope of survival in a world that was changing around her and so long as God had joined them together she would do His bidding.

She wasn’t sure if it was the cruel whip of the wind against her face that was making her eyes water, or if it was the sheer helplessness she felt, but Mary sat down on the deck – not caring for rank or cold – and began to sob. She sobbed for the situation, for the cold, for everything that had happened. Mary knew that there were selfish sobs – that despite her loss and her grief, she was alive and escaping from the confusion and anger that was now rife in her country.

The war had been brutal for everyone – at Morevale she had seen the worst of times; had seen people die in front of her – from their wounds, from sickness, from the terrible crush of people being thrown together in such horrendous circumstance. Mary had been but a child when the rebellions had begun; her father and brothers off to fight for their King – and continuing to fight even when it became obvious that they were not on the winning side.

They had never recovered the body of her father, that tall, dark haired man with the hearty laugh and easy charm, but his watch had been returned to her months later by a man who had worked their land in the summers and fought by his side in the battle that had claimed his life. The watch was in her pocket now, keeping time, still constant. She instinctively reached for it and turned it over in her hand, feeling the soft rounded metal and feeling the tremor of each second as it ticked away.

Sitting here on the deck of a sloop ship, running away to safety was not how she imagined spending her first few months as a newlywed. The ship was called ‘Mercurial’. It was smaller than she had imagined it to be, she thought that if she stretched out as wide as she could she would reach both sides, and she didn’t know how it would manage to convey them across the vast sea. Mary Darcy had never seen the sea before, except in books and on paintings, it was much colder than she had imagined. They were travelling to Hamburg, and suddenly she was struck with regret that she did not pay more attention in her classes at the modest manor house where she had grown up. The rounded, brown haired girl was unsure how life had managed to conspire against her in such a way that she was on a boat in the middle of the North Sea with a man she barely knew, dressed in clothes that she had borrowed from a servant girl. The garments were itchy, her stomach rumbled with hunger and the wind was icy. She had moved onto deck to try and abate the nausea that had overcome her, but it was no use. Nothing was helping, she feared nothing would again.


	60. Lizzy

Lizzy heard the clock in the Long Gallery chime its delicate melody, sounding out that it was now ten am. The house was due to open in half an hour and she was currently rummaging about in the small cupboard in what was once her old bedroom, trying to find a box of leaflets needed for her tour this afternoon. She loved the familiarity of being back in the Knights Bedroom – hidden away at the end of the gallery, she often forgot about the Jacobean strapwork on the ceiling, the wonkiness of the walls and how the fireplace mantel was straight, but the rest of the room wasn’t. If she thought about it hard, she could still smell a hint of Impulse, stolen cigarettes out of the window and burning wood from when she singed the windowsill with her hair straighteners. The bed was still here, although it had undergone intensive restoration work, never to be slept in again; and the nail glue had finally been removed from the fireplace, although she had heard that it took nearly three weeks to gradually work it away.

Pulling out the box of leaflets, she walked through her old playroom, along the north corridor and down the staff stairs towards the stewards’ room where a small huddle of volunteers, gathered with brews and biscuits, waiting for the briefing from Hannah who would let them know what was happening for the day. She walked in late, halfway through the schedule, placing her box on the table she grabbed a biscuit and sat down as the rest of the Thursday team went to their positions in various rooms around the house. This room used to be the Mahogany Room, it still was depending on which plan of the house you checked or the age of the member of staff you spoke to. She opened the two-hundred-year-old sash window onto the view of the Reflection Lake, the peaceful morning breeze drifting in off the hills, carrying the scent of roses down from the garden near the Orangery.  

“Lizzy?” Hannah brushed back into the room, hurriedly making a cup of tea as she gathered clipboards and feedback forms under her arm, “they’re doing the filming in the library, so you will need to cut that from your first tour this afternoon, that okay?”

She glanced back into the room distractedly, her eye taken by the small ducklings faltering about on the edge of the lake, “what filming is this?”

Hannah, busily grabbing for a radio and checking the schedule for something more important shouted back as she left the room, “The Story of My Life.”

Lizzy felt her heart immediately palpitate. The door clunked shut and then reopened as Hannah walked back into the room to slurp her tea.

“Is that today?”

“What? The filming? Yeah – did they ask you about it? We didn’t think you would be bothered,” she continued, “Benn Williams will be here later too, so if you can cut the Library from the afternoon tours that would be absolute perfection.” She swigged the last mouthful, “he’s been signing autographs and books in the Servants Hall later for staff, I am so excited! He was FIT as Darcy… I mean, UFFF…You must have met him when they filmed here, right?”

“Yeah,” she said hesitantly, her heartbeat in her fingers. “Yeah, I met him once or twice.”

“So LUCKY!” Hannah whined, “trust me to start work here like three weeks after they finished filming… the most exciting celebrity I’ve met so far was Jemima Lancaster, and she was nice, but she wasn’t Benn frickin Williams.” She disappeared out of the room, leaving an empty cup and the radio on the table.

 

It was lunchtime when Lizzy, armed with a book, escaped through the throng of people in the Bright Gallery and trudged down the north staircase emerging out into the warmth of the May sunshine. The courtyard was alive with people; children running about, HHS members queuing to have their cards scanned for entry, volunteers and staff and everyone bumping together in this great crowded hum of noise. She politely excused herself past a very large man with a very large dog, who was arguing, albeit fairly graciously, with Kate from the ticket office, and then quickly skirted around a loud, American couple who were asking if Colin Firth was about to emerge from the Lake in his wet white shirt. She heard one of the new ticket girls say lightheartedly, ‘only if he’s escaped from my handcuffs’, and it made her laugh, even if the Americans were unimpressed.

She was shooed past the queue for the garden by Don, whose smile on seeing her turned to a warning as she nearly knocked over a small child who appeared from underneath a bench. The lawn was packed with people – picnics, children running about with balls and frisbees, parents sunbathing on brightly patterned picnic blankets and drinking wine from plastic glasses, a couple of girls from the Austen group wearing Regency dress and taking selfies holding parasols, as their boyfriends stood awkwardly to the side wearing stiff cravats and top hats. All of this was Pemberley; taking everyone into its big old heart and captivating them with its magic and she adored days like this when the love everyone felt was so evidently on display and the visitors treated the house like their own.

She had already seen the production crew setting up in the Library, only a small team today, and an historian who had contacted Joyce about the Fitzwilliam connection, but she had yet to see him. She was unsure what she would feel; would it be a stomach-churning flip, or would it be a burning anger, or would it be a sadness… one that washed over her, pulling her under the waves, not letting her back up to gasp for air. She didn’t have to wait long, from her viewpoint next to the Orangery, she saw the Volvo pull up to the gates; watched as he was buzzed in and saw him get out of the car and walk towards the house, where he was met by Joyce who greeted him as if he were an old friend.

Standing at the edge of the doorway to the library, she excused herself to the few members of crew who were pushing past her. There was only a small team, and the historian from the HHS archives in London, who had brought boxes of information with her. And then there he was; sitting in the bay window of the library, being gently made up by the lady with the red hair, who she now knew was his sister-in-law, Lucy. He looked different to how she had remembered him looking – he had never really looked like he did on movie posters or on the TV, but his face seemed a little thinner, and he had grown his beard again. He was wearing a smart white shirt and blue jeans, looking casually rich and off-duty. He glanced over in her direction and she hid behind the door frame, trying to avoid Graeme who was walking down the stairs. Politely she tried to dodge out of the way, but it was too late.

“Miss Lizzy,” he boomed. “I haven’t seen you for a few weeks, have you been away?”

He stopped dead at the bottom of the staircase, right in front of the doorway to the library. Caught between a velvet rope and a throng of brownie guides on a visit with Brown Owl, there was absolutely nowhere to hide, and she stood there like a frightened deer waiting to be hit by a minivan.

“Hello, my lovely,” she said graciously to the doorman she had known forever. “I thought you had been away, I missed you!”

“Oh, missed me...I’m sure you have, Miss Lizzy, are you here to relieve me or are you doing something more important?”

“I’m just…” she noticed that Benn was definitely looking over at her now, removing the napkin from under his chin and getting up from his seat, “…it’s…erm…”

Graeme looked at her confused, “are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. Benn was walking towards her now, and she needed to get away. “If you would just excuse me…”

The older man nodded consent and smiled amiably, before he was accosted by the brownie leader who was currently doling out information packs and pencils to the small hoard of smiling girls.

Lizzy moved through the crowd, out under the staircase and into the Bright Gallery where she then sneaked down the side staircase, into the entrance hall and out the front door. The courtyard was full of people still, even in the warm hum of the late afternoon, and she moved through the crowd and back into the house the wrong way around.

Benn knew he would see her, and there she was; a flash of dark hair, a red polka dot dress, and then she was gone. He felt his heart flip a little, but then the excitement was replaced by fear. Fear of the unknown, fear that she would reject him and send him on his merry way. A long time had passed and although he was sure she would understand he wouldn’t blame her if she told him to get lost. He would try his best and lay his best hand on the table; he would have to hope that it was good enough.

“Are you ready for this, Mr Williams…”

The woman had followed him into the hallway, he looked confused, she thought.

“Call me Benn, please…” he smiled politely.

Felicity Kruger, the senior curator of the HHS archives, smiled back at him; this project had been so interesting, especially given the family connections that had emerged in her research. Felicity didn’t know if he was aware that he was a descendant of Fitzwilliam Darcy, but she did know that this was going to make amazing television, and if she got to spend the afternoon flirting with Benn Williams then all the better.

 

Mabel Fitzwilliam-Darcy, the prematurely widowed Countess of Matlock, had five sons and no daughters, which was perhaps the best outcome for a woman of her rank. The youngest was a boy called Albert, named after the venerable German prince who had married the British Queen. Albert grew up healthy and strong, not tied down with the expectation attached to his older brothers; he went to Eton and Oxford before marrying a lady called Maud Oxley, who was a buxom woman of middling appearance with a small dowry and a large chip on her shoulder. Taking charge of the family mills in Lancashire, Albert moved the family to a beautiful red brick building, surrounded by fields. Perhaps Albert was more Darcy than Fitzwilliam, because he had inherited his grandfather’s business acumen and the family wealth grew. It was the day before his son Walter’s wedding, whilst attending a meeting about wages, that Albert Fitzwilliam’s heart finally gave up and he keeled over the boardroom table. They counted it as a vote in favour of a pay increase, nevertheless.  

The new Mrs Fitzwilliam, a nineteen year old actress called Sarah Duncan, was famous for her role as Miss Pretty, but Maud thought she had bad manners, a dubious reputation and was definitely not good enough for her eldest boy, regardless of how young, pretty and flaxen haired she was. She gave birth to their first child, David, soon after the marriage; he was a bonny, bouncing boy with a placid temperament and a head full of blond ringlets.

‘You need to chop those off’, Maud said one evening, ‘he looks like a girl’.

Sarah rarely listened to Maud, instead she lit a cigarette, turned up the wireless and danced around the room with David as he giggled with glee. She hadn’t expected Walter to fritter away his inheritance; trying to maintain the lifestyle of his peers from school whilst not having the talent, business acumen or income to sustain it, and they ended up virtually destitute and living in Maud’s spare room at ‘Hartfield’, the small and damp detached Victorian villa that the family had struggled to maintain since Albert’s death.

She raised David quite singlehandedly, under the watchful eye of her mother-in-law, earning a few quid here and there recording jingles for the radio. David worked hard at school and showed a natural flair for languages, teaching his mother swear words in Spanish and passing the eleven plus with flying colours. He earned a place at the local Grammar School and his grandmother celebrated by dropping down dead as she iced his cake. A confetti of  royal icing sugar and currants scattered all over the floor, to be picked up and saved for later by Walter’s sister, Iris; the war might be over, but rationing was still in place. Death was no excuse for extravagance, Iris thought, as she picked the dried fruit up off the dusty floor with sore, rough hands, placing it back into the jar for another day.

Walter, sixteen years old than his youthful bride, passed away peacefully in a hospital bed one June afternoon in 1955. It was the cancer, he said to a fellow patient as he smoked a cigarette, the same one that had taken good King Bertie. He had nothing to leave David, apart from an old pocket watch with a worn engraving on it that had belonged to one of his ancestors, he couldn’t remember which one. It was an heirloom, Walter had told him as he pressed it into his hands that summer evening. They both knew that he would never see autumn.

Sarah lived a year longer before being hit by a trolley bus on her way to work; the contents of her bag spilled over the road and her pink felt hat, crumpled and creased, lay forlornly under the wheels. Oh look, said a passer-by, it’s Miss Pretty. Not so pretty now, said another, as they watched the ambulance scooping up bloody insides and placing them into official looking paper bags, before lifting the remains of Sarah onto the stretcher and carrying her away. David, now orphaned and alone at seventeen, found refuge with a distant cousin of his father’s. She couldn’t offer him anything apart from a day’s pay for a day’s graft and lodgings in the stables. He accepted gleefully; waving goodbye to Aunt Iris who was putting Hartfield up for sale and planning a move to Swindon.

The house in Derbyshire had been big and cold, but he had enjoyed the good meals and working on the land. Using the family names and utilising the Old Boys network, the cousin found him a job at the Home Office, and he progressed quickly, entering the foreign service; based in Libya and then Bangladesh, before transferring home for a regular desk job at an office in Manchester, where he could commute to his little semi-detached on the outskirts of Bury.

David had one son, Derek, who was a commensurate disappointment; the path of his life decided when he failed the eleven plus and was shunted towards the local secondary modern, where he was barely adequate at anything. Still, the watch in his pocket kept ticking, and as time moved on, Derek married Lynn and they had two sons and a daughter. David loved being a grandad and he recognised something of himself in the youngest boy and encouraged him with a particular favouritism.

It seemed like only a few years had passed, but before he knew it the boy had graduated from Cambridge. David pressed the small, smoothed pocket watch firmly into his palm, and his youngest grandson had held it in his hands, feeling the faint outline of the dedication that had once been engraved upon it:  _Unum e Pluribus._ The older man didn’t care for the boys chosen career path – acting, what a palaver! – but he trusted that everything would be alright in the end and he offered his continued support: paying for the rent on the grotty bedsit in Mile End or taking them out for tea whenever he ventured to London. He even suggested a new stage name, when the boy’s agent said his own sounded clunky and archaic. He needed something new, something now; it was the nineties after all. David pondered on it for a while as they drank milky coffee from chipped mugs, perched on the sofa bed in the flat that smelled of Turkish meat and Dettol.  ‘Benn Williams’ had a nice ring to it, he thought.

A family tree has roots that run deep and strong, but the branches of it spread out far and wide, the leaves falling through time and reappearing in the most unlikely of places.

“And how do you feel about discovering that you are, in fact, a five time great grandson of Fitzwilliam Darcy…?” Felicity pressed, as they sat at the large round table in the library.

“Well, obviously it’s a little overwhelming…” Benn had not expected this. He had thought the ‘The Story of My Life’ would flag up something vaguely interesting, they wouldn’t have asked him to do it if it didn’t, but this was absolutely mad. No wonder the production team had been so eager to film at Pemberley – it made complete sense now, but related to the Darcys… related to Fitzwilliam… to Lizzy… He looked around the library, focusing on the small golden bulls glinting in the sunlight, and he wondered how many of them were still missing, replaced by the imposters.

“Do you need a minute, Benn?” The director called over from behind the camera.

Pulled out of his daydream, Benn smiled flirtatiously, his eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine and he could see Felicity visibly quiver.

“So,’ he said never taking his eyes off her, “what you’re saying is that of all this I could have been Master?”

It was cheesy, he knew that, but this was television and he had watched enough episodes of this programme to know what he needed to say. Felicity’s laugh trilled across the table towards him, and she blushed slightly, the colour of her cheeks rising to a gentle pink which matched her cardigan.  

“Well not quite,” she smiled. “Your great great grandad – Lord Albert Fitzwilliam – was the son of Mabel Darcy, and our Mr Darcy would have been his grandad. But, this is doubly special, because not only are you related to our lovely Darcy family here, but you are also a distant cousin of Dennys Fitzwilliam, the current Earl of Matlock.”

“Not bad for a boy from Bury, is it?” He grinned, searching the paper in front of him, following the curve of the family tree down to his own name and those of Anya and Esther underneath his own. Looking across he could see Lady Elizabeth Darcy marked across on the paper, all small parts of the same family.

“Were you not aware of this at all before you started filming the iconic role?”

Felicity’s serious face was quite amusing; she had a pointed nose and drawn on eyebrows, her tightened smile highlighted by a pearly pink lipstick. She was looking at him intently, he would need to answer her.

“I mean, Mr Darcy’s descendent playing Mr Darcy is quite special,” she pressed

“Yes, yes of course it is.” He was genuinely surprised. “My grandad once told me about staying with a cousin in Derbyshire, but I never really expected him to have stayed here at Pemberley.”

“He did, in fact we have a picture here of him with Lady Millicent Darcy…”

Felicity pushed over a faded black and white photograph of a young David standing with an older, but still glamorous Millicent – all smiling as they played croquet on the front lawn, the towering grandeur of Pemberley standing behind them; still the same, still as constant.

“Right, take five everyone – please set up for the next shot in the Saloon.” Christian shuffled his papers seriously, before jumping up from his chair and walking around looking important.

“Saloon?”

“Oh yes,” Felicity nodded. “We have another set of shots with Harriet Darcy, she’s the daughter of Lady Elizabeth.”

“Harriet?” Benn was confused.

“We asked for Lady Liz, but they couldn’t schedule her in. Harriet is just as good though, really nice girl.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

“Oh, do you know the family?” Felicity looked at him curiously over the edge of her reading glasses and smiled, “shouldn’t take too long.”

Benn Williams had walked into the Saloon, flirting and chatting with the lady from the HHS, who was obviously smitten with him. Harriet thought he looked older, a bit more worn around the edges; he was a bit fatter than she remembered from when filming had ended, but she knew how much he loved desserts, so she wasn’t surprised. Harriet didn’t like his beard, and she didn’t like the way his eyes were tinged with sadness. He looked strange in his normal clothes; even when he had been at the flat almost every night it almost felt like when teachers come into school in their normal clothes, and she didn’t know if she would ever get used to seeing him without a cravat and sideburns.  

The filming had been interesting, and she had learned a lot about Mabel Darcy, who had always been one of her favourite ancestors, even if she wasn’t a direct one. She had always wondered what had happened to the larger than life, romping girl who had bounded down the stairs, of course, she knew the facts – written down in books and on the internet – but she didn’t know the stories, and that was all everyone ended up being in the end.

“I can’t believe you never told me your real name was Bennet Fitzwilliam,” unlike her mum Harriet wasn’t mad at him, she was simply curious.

“You would have taken the piss.”

“Of course, I would!” She grinned at him, but he didn’t smile back, not in the same way anyhow. She studied his face for a moment, “have you seen my mum?”

“No.”

He looked up quickly, and then focused his attention to the papers on the table. But she saw the shift of something across his face, almost as if he was scared to say something out loud.

Harriet looked him in the eye, “Benn. I’m going to ask you something.”

“Of course,” he whispered.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes,” he nodded, gently and then with more vigour. “Yes, I do. I always have.”

There was a moment and Harriet Darcy looked at Benn Williams with his sad face and contrite mouth, she saw how he was almost huddled on the couch and she believed him completely.

Smiling softly, she said, “then you need to find her and tell her that.”

Her mum believed that being a Darcy always meant choosing responsibility over anything else; but she didn’t. She believed that being part of this family meant choosing love over everything else; she could see time and time again where her ancestors had done just that. She was fully aware that her mum feared doing something just for herself, that the last time she had done what she wanted without thinking of the consequences, she had become a single mum at twenty. Even though they had an amazing life together, it hadn’t always been as easy as people thought, and Harriet knew that Lizzy Darcy was always overly cautious about getting burned, seeing the ending of every relationship as a massive failure. But this was different, because she knew that Benn Williams felt the same way as her mum did, that it was simply timing and misunderstandings and things that would be commonplace if this was a romantic comedy.

 “Look,” she levelled with him. “My mum is pissed at you. Really pissed. But she loves you too, I know she does.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, rolling her eyes and smiling.

Standing up she unclipped the microphone from her jacket and handed it back to the production assistant, who had an ever-present frown which she found troubling.

 

“Okay,” shouted Christian, the short, angry unit director. “We’ve finished here now; Benn are you alright to jump in the van with us to Nostell?”

“Where’s that?”

 “It’s in Wakefield,” Christian was busy concentrating on a wedge of papers on his clipboard. “It’s the Fitzwilliam family home."

This was not part of the plan, he hadn’t planned to jump in anything and go to Nostell, but he supposed it would be interesting to meet the Earl of Matlock and get shown around his ancestral home.

Felicity chirped in, eager to get his agreement to the trip, “Dennys Fitzwilliam said that he can meet us there – we can introduce you.” She noticed his reluctance, “It won’t take long, just a few shots. Maximum three hours, I promise.”

He nodded his consent before walking over to the window where Lucy had reappeared after the filming had finished. She was looking radiant as ever, and he could see the faint outline of the bump, containing his new nephew who was due to arrive after Christmas.

“Off to Yorkshire then?” She wiped the make-up from his face, “best thing to come out o’Yorkshire is the road! That’s what your mum always says anyway!”

He laughed, it was a running joke in the family of how proud Lynne was of her Lancastrian heritage, “best not tell her that we might all be from Yorkshire then, eh?”

She grinned, “it will be like the War of the Roses all over again! She’ll disown us all.”

 “Where did you go?” He queried as she applied a facial oil and eye cream.

“For a brew…” She saw the questioning look on his face, she knew what he wanted to hear. “I didn’t see her.”

She caught the look of sadness on his face, “she might be waiting for you, Benn. Look,” she said, as she sat down next to him in the bay window, “you’re off to Wakefield for what, couple of hours? By the time you get back all the visitors will have gone, and you will have more chance of finding her. Right?”

He nodded. She was right, of course, she was pretty much always right.

It didn’t take three hours. The traffic on the M62 ground to a halt just before Leeds. the Earl of Matlock left the house around six thirty unable to wait any longer, by eight they were being diverted off the motorway and onto an A road somewhere near Huddersfield.

Bennet Fitzwilliam should have known that nothing in life was ever straightforward.

Pemberley was in darkness by the time he unfolded himself from the cramped conditions of the production bus; up on top of the house he could see the lights from the flat blazing away and he wished more than anything that he lived there so he would be home by now. He had been away for so long now, but he had thought about walking up the curling staircase, feeling his hands against the chalky plaster, and sitting down on the couch next to Lizzy, wrapping his arms around her. He wondered if he should knock on her door, if she would be happy to see him.

 “Where the hell have you been?”

The voice came suddenly out of the darkness. Standing next to his car, wrapped in a cardigan, her hair as mad as he remembered was Lizzy. He smiled, his heart lifting, but as he moved closer he could see that she was furious, her eyes sparking wildly, her nostrils flaring and that crease on her brow deep and dark like a canyon.

“Honestly?”

“Of course, fucking honestly! You disappear off the face of the earth for five months, and I don’t know where you are, and you don’t even have the decency to let me know you’re okay…” she was shooting the words out like machine gun fire.

“Really, Lizzy? You want to know where I was? Stuck in my own personal hell… miserable, and sad and fucking lonely without you.”

“No! That’s bullshit!” She harrumphed loudly, “You don’t...” quieter now, smaller, “…you can’t… you _shouldn’t_ be with someone like that,” her voice was louder than she would have liked, but she couldn’t help it.

She rose to her feet, stomping toward the house in blue sequinned shoes that were catching the moonlight; she looked enchanted.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I am so sorry. There is absolutely no excuse for it, but please will you let me explain…”

He thought he had done the right thing leaving that morning, but now he saw it had been a selfish act. He had left her unaware that the last few months of his self-imposed exile had been necessary, that every day he had longed to call her, hear her voice on those days when he needed the sparkle of her to pull him out of the dark. But she hadn’t known this, how could she have known? All she would have known was that he was gone.

“You set me on fire and you walked away,” her voice was still angry, but her eyes were sad, and he ached to hold her.  “You left me with the ashes, Benn, I don’t think any reason you can give me will make that better.”

She could feel all the emotions of the last few months burning up inside her. There was the sadness of waking up and finding the bed empty, the anger at seeing the pictures of Benn and Natasha travelling back to LA together arm in arm the following day, and then the worry when he vanished from the face of the earth and she didn’t know where he was or if he was okay, and then the nights as the tears ran down her face as she cried herself to sleep, locked up and hidden in the privacy of her room, trying to remember the touch of him on her body, the scent of him on her skin. What he had told her on that long journey to London stuck with her and she had a fear that he would do something stupid and end up a tragic celebrity tale, and she didn’t want that. She kept him at arm’s length, she knew she had to because everything in her was fighting this.

“Is that it then?”

She shrugged and turned on her heel. As she walked away, he watched her intently hoping that she would look back.

She didn’t.


	61. Mabel

Mabel Darcy recovered from the death of her husband in a manner most ill befitting of ladies of her generation; whilst she wore black for twelve months as required, she was determined to do something worthwhile with her life, something that would make a difference. It had been enough for her father that she had made a good match, but her mother had always wanted more for the girl who had lived. Mabel Darcy travelled far and wide; packing up her youngest children and leaving the house at Nostell that she felt was becoming a catacomb of grief, a shrine to a lost life. She visited Egypt, America, the Holy Lands, collecting artefacts and treasures, venturing further than most women in an age where a woman could be Queen in her own right, but where women were still the possessions of their husbands. She documented everything in the detailed and extensive travel journals that she would eventually become famous for, blazing a trail across the globe in a manner befitting the only daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.

At the age of fifty-three, she returned to England and the house in Derbyshire as the guest of her nephew, Fitzwilliam. He introduced his fabled aunt: the great Lady Explorer, her skin the colour of walnuts, the smell of oud and roses surrounding her, to his new bride. The lady came from a Norfolk family, he said, perhaps she knew of them; the Wyndhams. The newest Duchess explained how her mother had died when she was eight, how her father had never remarried, despite being still relatively young. Clementine, wanting to ingratiate herself to her newest and most famous relative opened her locket to show a tiny painted miniature of her father, wondering if there was some prior acquaintance. Mabel shook her head gently as she sipped her tea; for all her adventures – the places she had been, the things she had seen, the men she had met, the men she had loved - she had not met another who had understood her in the way that Percy had done.

After dinner she retired to the library, the room still smelled like her father; she was pleased to see his bulls all standing to attention, his chair still by the fireplace. She ran her finger along the row of books on the middle shelf, all still present and correct, pulling out the atlas that she had brought home nearly thirty years ago. Flipping through the pages, she traced her finger over the calculations that had been made in the margin, of the route that her dearest Papa had travelled, his handwriting still there, still present, and she realised how much she had missed.

Her mother had died three years after her father, passing away quietly in her own bed in the room that overlooked the lake at Pemberley. Elizabeth had been interred next to Fitzwilliam in the church at Lambton, together for eternity, their final resting place marked with a simple dedication. Mabel missed them both dearly; but she still sensed them here at Pemberley, in every room and down every corridor, she was sure she could hear the echo of Papa, his voice clear and strong, and the effervescent laugh of her mother ringing across the courtyard. She read Pride and Prejudice often, it amused her to know that the rector’s daughter who had stayed at Pemberley one summer had immortalised them forever in the pages of a novel. But for now, Mabel was home; and she was finally ready to live.

Percy Wyndham had never expected that his own path would cross with Mabel Darcy’s again. Newly arrived from the coast, he had stepped off the train at Lambton not knowing that she was at Pemberley, not knowing that the feelings he had buried deep within him would re-emerge when he saw her. He had married Flora knowing that it was wrong; hated how she pandered to him, never challenged him. When she died he barely noticed her absence, and he had despised himself for that. Mabel had been lost to him, and when they had met at social engagements, he saw the sadness pass across her eyes for the future that they could have had. When news of her husband’s death had reached Norfolk, he was determined to find her again; but by the time he arrived in Yorkshire she had already left, and the house was shuttered until the teenage Earl was ready to take up his inheritance. Once again, she had slipped through his fingers but now, in the library of her ancestral home, here they were. The scent of rose oil and cinnamon permeated his soul, and he knew that he was never going to let her go again.

Sometimes we need to travel to far flung places, reach the furthest corners of the world to realise that everything we are looking for is in the person waiting patiently for us to return to shore.  

In the three corridors of the Bright Gallery, the exhibition about her life told the story of a fearless woman who defied society’s conventions; on the walls hung the artefacts that she had brought back with her, the illustrations she had made of the places she had been to, the clothes she had worn and finally, in pride of place, the newly discovered atlas that had belonged to her father and where she had plotted and planned her journey in the library at Pemberley. Mabel had married Percy Wyndham at the age of fifty-four; they had eighteen blissful years together in the house at Cromer, where they sailed out to sea and ate crabs straight from the shell.

 


	62. Lizzy

The exhibition of Wartime at Pemberley was proving popular today and the Long Gallery was humming with people and noise and the soft click-clack of boots and shoes on the wooden floor. It was a warm day and visitors had flocked inside, escaping into the breezy coolness of the building; a woman was busy scolding her toddler, using a gentle but firm voice, as he threw himself on the floor, an older couple meandered up the stairs gently holding hands as they chatted softly, a couple of teenagers in walking boots and t-shirts looking serious and reading everything, a middle-aged woman and her daughter speaking in hushed tones. The collection of photos and artefacts had been found hidden in a cupboard down in the bowels of the house; all boxed up and categorised, detailed and documented in her great-grandmother’s spindly, firm handwriting. Lizzy loved the picture of Millicent and Jonathan, standing in the Dutch Gardens, busy planting broadbeans and onions – him resting his boot on a spade, whilst she grinned up at him wearing dungarees with her hair tied up in a scarf. But it was the picture of the first wave of evacuees – Pemberley Easter Hunt 1940 – that she found the most poignant; wondering how many of those little faces, grinning at the camera holding Easter baskets with their knobbly knees visible, survived the bombardment that they returned to.

The clippings and cuttings in the paper always referred to Millicent as ‘the mother of the Duke of Derbyshire’, rather than as a person in her own right. Funny, Lizzy thought, how the ladies of Pemberley were only ever mentioned in relation to the men that they married or gave birth to. Millicent had never married, always danced to her own tune and had probably been the happiest of the most recent of her line – running her home, raising her children and doing it all wearing a string of pearls and a full-face of make-up. This unusual Lady Darcy had managed to keep the house in the family for so long, selling what she needed to, downsizing the estate and opening the house up for occasional paid visits; despite Pemberley being immortalised in English literature, the threat of abandonment and demolition in the post war years had always been a very real danger, and she knew that Millicent, with her clever mind, had been the reason for its survival.

Winston, injured and discharged, returned home in the summer of ’43, he had been serving in the RAF – flying out over Dusseldorf on a targeted raid one September evening, trying not to think of the hundreds of innocent civilians below who were unlikely to survive the night; later limping home on a tank leaking fuel into the sea, they had crashed into a field on the south coast. Winston had felt the intense pain as his lower leg shattered, he would walk with a limp for the rest of his life because of it, but as their squadron sat silent and still, battered and bleeding, they called out with laughter and relief grateful to be alive under the starry skies of England.

Jonathan Sykes never went back to Essex, instead he proclaimed loudly one autumn afternoon in 1944 that he had found his soulmate and companion of his life in the Lady of the House. They would live at Pemberley together for the next twenty-two years, where he would always make her morning cup of coffee himself and insisted on calling her ‘M’Lady’ when she acted pompous in front of him, much to her great vexation. But he would hold her close at night when she screamed out in pain; the residual damage to her body from the treatment in prison catching up with her in small, agonizing ways; the nightmares that haunted her every so often, screaming out in terror as the sight of Emily being pounded to death by the King’s horse was pulled into her dreams as she watched on powerless. Sometimes the greatest love is found in the small, quiet moments of the night, the gentle cool hand on a burning fever.

He died the night before the World Cup Final, peacefully and without drama in his own bed, which cast a rather sombre shadow on the celebrations of the following day. Kenneth Wolstenholme blared out from the small television set in the corner of the Stag Parlour as England made a play for the goal, “they think it’s all over!”

“It is now,” said Millicent, jutting out her chin and refusing to cry, despite the sad looks and pitying glances from her friends and family. She sat silently writing at Fitzwilliam Darcy’s desk, making plans for the funeral - three loaves, two tins of ham and a Victoria sponge.

Millicent didn’t stay sad, she was a Darcy and it simply wasn’t good form to grieve for too long. She had had three romantic loves in her life and she was grateful for all of them, but the greatest love affair she had embarked upon was that with herself – she had lived so many lives, all of them remarkable in their own way, each one defining who she was at that moment in time. As she climbed the stairs up to her small bedroom for what would be her final night on earth, she hoped that she would be remembered by those whose lives she had touched, even if it was in the most unremarkable of ways.

Lady Millicent Augusta Darcy died in the early hours of warm July morning. She was such a wonderful mistress, Staughton had said to the coroner as they covered the body in a sheet and took her to the local chapel of rest, always down to earth, would do anything for anyone. It was a good old life, Mrs Reynolds nodded in agreement, as she packed a small bag for the funeral home with the clothes Lady Millicent had requested. Don’t forget the red lipstick, she had reminded them, she will haunt us if we let her go without that.

The Jones’ girls never stopped talking or cleaning fires badly and, after working with the Land Girls for the latter half of the war and providing Pemberley with much needed supplies and amusement, they returned to the remains of their homes in the suburbs of Manchester. When Winston opened the house up to the public in the early seventies, Laura Jones paid the entrance fee and caught the shuttle bus up the drive towards the house that she had lived in for most of her childhood. She found herself overcome with happy memories as she sat in the servants’ hall with a cup of tea, remembering the moment that Lady Darcy had told her that she wasn’t being separated from her sister as she had feared, but that they would be living in this house from a storybook, the mornings when she cried for her mother and Mrs Reynolds would snuggle her close until the tears stopped, and the day they all found out, huddled around the wireless in the drawing room, that Hitler was dead and the War was over, all cheering with honest, thankful joy. Laura, now Mrs Palmer to the class of infants that she taught in Hyde, found herself quietly weeping as her husband averted his eyes and passed her a handkerchief.

The room was much busier now and John had signalled over from the other end that someone was looking for her. Lizzy smiled at the elderly gentleman with the flash of white hair and the wide smile, he called her over and she embraced him warmly, he walked with a cane now, but was still as firm and broad as he had been in his youth.

“Hello, Miss Lizzy,” he said in his warm, Derbyshire-tinted accent. “Well, I must say, this is all very grand isn’t it? Who’d have thunk it of us.”

Thomas Bingley, orphaned by the stray bomb that fell on the house in Fleetwood Road, never went back to Southend. Instead the Darcys took it upon themselves to pay for his education and he was admitted to Eton at the start of Michaelmas Half 1946. He eventually played cricket for Derbyshire and lived in a small house in Lambton with his wife, before teaching PE and Geography at a local grammar school. They had raised three daughters, one of whom they named Millie after her godmother, she had stood proudly at the font in a hat trimmed with feathers and a fox fur stole. As he stood in the long gallery, almost in the same place where his bed once stood, he felt a sudden rush of emotion for the long-lost days of his childhood. If he concentrated hard enough, he was sure that his old body could still smell Shalamar and cigarettes, could still hear Lady Darcy singing ‘Wild Women Don’t Have The Blues’ as the gramophone crackled.


	63. Mary - 1649

‘Mistress Darcy?’

Mary raised her head from her knees and looked up. It was George, he looked tired – she supposed he would be, they had ridden through the night after the call came from the neighbouring estate that Parliamentary forces were gathering up their opponents for questioning and almost certain execution. 

‘Mary, are you alright? I did not know where...where you had…had gone,’ he stammered.

For the most part George managed to keep this childhood habit under control and defeat it, but when he was nervous or worried or scared, it would remerge.  He walked over to her, offered his hand and then pulled her up to her feet. His eyes searched for hers and he found them tired and red.

‘Have you been weeping?’

He reached inside his jacket – the garment of his steward, Wickham – and handed her a handkerchief. She held the cloth between her fingers – she noticed that it was her own embroidery, one of the few things that she had stitched for him before their engagement. It was their interwoven initials in a bright blue thread.

‘You kept it,’ she said warmly. She looked up at him and a small smile brightened her face.

He nodded, gently taking the handkerchief from her. ‘Of course, one always finds a handkerchief most useful for wiping away tears and blotting the noses of pretty, young ladies on the decks of ships’. He pressed the cloth gently to her face and wiped her tears.

‘I know you are scared, my love,’ he said. ‘I know that you are unsure about what the future holds for us, but please know that I will do everything I can to protect you’.

Mary looked at her husband. He was shorter than she remembered – maybe even the same height when she was in her cotton feet, however, he was broad; solid and reliable. She was not sure if she loved him yet, but she trusted him and believed that he would do everything he said he would. She looked into his grey eyes, so wise for such a young man, and then she vomited on his shoes. George stood silent for a moment, then looked at his wife with a kindly look in his eye and laughed. Despite herself and her embarrassment, she laughed too.

‘I think you need something to eat, Mistress Darcy,’ he smiled, letting the sea water wash the sick from his shoes. ‘Will you give me the honour of accompanying you downstairs for supper?’  And with that, they retired into the cramped warmth of the lower deck.

As she nursed her aching belly and wiped away the tears from her eyes, Mary Darcy didn’t know that it would be eleven years before she would set foot again on English soil, that the regard and gratitude she felt for George Darcy would develop into a deep, respectful love that would envelop her body and soul. Mary would return to England as the mother of three children – with two more yet to arrive in the years following – the house would be rebuilt, brick by brick, stone by stone, George’s fervent promise to rebuild resulting in a grand country seat of which she would be mistress. With her husband’s title restored she would be received in court as the Duchess of Derbyshire, be a close personal friend of Queen Catherine, and be treated with more deference and respect than this country girl would have ever hoped, but these things were in the future, and for now, she felt more scared and alone than she had ever felt in her life.

The sky was getting darker now, around her there were shouts of noise in a language she did not understand. Mary Darcy vowed to herself that if she were fortunate enough to survive this and tell her children about it, then she would embellish it as the greatest of adventures. At the end of the storm, just about as far as her eye could see was a clear sky, and she knew that her life would be perfectly wonderful if she could have to courage to chase that small patch of blue. 


	64. Lizzy

Mondays were always quiet at Pemberley – unless it was a Bank Holiday like today. Children were throwing themselves about the courtyard as mums and dads unpacked jackets and snacks, eager to placate the smaller ones before dragging them around the house. Out in the garden the delights of archery and croquet awaited them, but first they must do something educational. It was always the same on the last Monday before school started back in September as families enjoyed the last five seconds of summer. Lizzy slipped on her Lady Darcy outfit – never changing; fake pearls, a Cath Kidston scarf, a squirt of the same perfume that her mother used to wear – and prepared to get to work.

The Lady Darcy tour was due to start at twelve; an intimate guided tour around the house led by Elizabeth Darcy herself. Guests were led down passageways and up staircases that they would probably never know existed; Lizzy was halfway down the female servants’ staircase, with its twisted finials and dark blue walls, when she noticed the extra guest who had joined the tour. She felt her stomach flip, but retained her composure and continued onwards, leading guests to the Saloon and the chance to step out on to the balcony as Darcy and Elizabeth would have done. In here the exhibition about Mabel Darcy stood proudly around the room – it was one of the most popular parts of the house, and Lizzy was always fascinated by the wax cylinder recording of Mabel’s voice recorded when she was an old woman, now digitised and replayed  – it was as if she was addressing her directly, almost as if Mabel was grasping at her through history.

 “Life passes by so quickly, you will find that even at the end of it you will find things you ought to have done. So, remember this; devote yourself to everything you find beautiful or worthy of your attention. Treasure every day, cherish every person who touches your soul. Love fiercely and live without restraint.’

After the events of the previous night, this hit a chord in her heart. Mabel had travelled the world to escape her feelings for Percy Wyndham, but they had found each other again when it was right. Lizzy wanted to know what Benn wanted to say, she wanted to know the reasons for it, and stubbornness wasn’t going to get those reasons for her. She was going to find Benn Williams and she was going to speak to him, without pride or prejudice getting in the way, because she loved him, and sometimes that was simply enough.

The group moved down the corridor of the Bright Gallery, the vibration of twelve people moving all at once causing the glass cabinet to shudder and clink as they walked past, and then the lid of the Chinese spice jar to join in with the chorus. They moved to the bottom of the Grand Staircase and as she went through her spiel of how it was built by a local craftsman, how George Darcy had been marched down these stairs as he was arrested for treason, how Lady Hortense Darcy had met an untimely end at the foot of them, and how Mr Darcy himself had personally selected the carvings and embellishments.

“And most recently,” she continued, “Pemberley itself was used as the location for the filming of Pride and Prejudice and, if you’ve seen it, you will probably remember the staircase as being the centrepiece of the final scenes where the happy couple return home after their nuptials.”

“Oh yes,” trilled a plump, enthusiastic woman stood at the front. “This was where Darcy took her by the hand and led her upstairs with the candle.”

“That was so romantic,” swooned another less plump but more orange lady, who was pointing at a portrait of the real Fitzwilliam that hung on the staircase wall. “I recognise that picture!”

“And he said, “Let me show you Mrs Darcy, that being Mistress of Pemberley might be something,” and then he kisses her!”

“Yes! He kisses her right here next to the bannister!” The orange lady moved past Lizzy and a flustered woman wrangling two children and threw herself onto the staircase in the manner of the fictional Mrs Darcy.

“And then she says… ‘Oh Mr Darcy, you are very fortunate indeed for you appear to have wed the happiest and luckiest woman in England’,” they laughed in unison, both doing pitch perfect impressions of Jenny Graves.

“Was that in the book?” A voice piped up from the back of the crowd, pushing to the front Benn Williams looked slightly dishevelled,

“Oh, it should have been,” said the plump woman, who looked at him and then did a double take. “It’s you!” She touched him on the arm making sure that he was real. “Oh my god, Sharon, look! Look who it is!!”

There was a shriek from a few more of the ladies on the tour, and he was surrounded in a hubbub of noise, signing autographs and taking pictures. Lizzy looked on as he smiled and charmed and made love to them all; and she found that she was smiling with them. He caught her eye, just for a second, but she felt it and she knew he did too.

 

The sun was warm in the Rose Garden and they sat together in companionable silence; they had walked up there without a word passing between them, both lost in their thoughts. He spoke first, quietly, the rumble of the words rolling like thunder.

“The premiere was a bad day in a bad month. It wasn’t just that day when I had been drinking, it had been a slow build up over the months before.” He felt her looking at him, and he turned to see her looking at him with concern.

She wondered why he looked so sad and then she felt those familiar prickles again, couldn’t quite tell if they were good or bad, was he trying to tell her that this wasn’t a good idea, that this was another false start, that this was all they would ever amount to.

“The only thing good to come out of it was that night with you, because I realised that you were the reason I had to get better. I had to conquer it,” he was serious, but didn’t feel as if he could look her in the eye. “It’s not _normal_ drinking, I know that now. It changes me, and I was tired of not being me and being a different person; you made me remember that the person I actually am is a nice guy.”  

She looked at him questioningly and he saw the familiar tenderness in those grey eyes of hers that he had thought about so much over the last few months. He reached to take her hand in his own, surprised when she offered it willingly. It was good to feel the delicate grasp of her fingers in his hand, and he grasped them like he was holding onto the string of a shiny balloon that he never wanted to let go of.

 “I’m didn’t stop drinking because of you, but you made me not want to start again,” he stroked her thumb, could hear his heartbeat pounding away in his chest, knew he had to be honest. “I read a lot; I remembered that I loved to read – drinking took that away from me, took my concentration – I’ve read so much. I read your book,” he saw her blush slightly, “it was brilliant.” He saw her start to contradict him, “no, don’t, I loved it. Every word…” He held her hand tightly, “And I had to come back and tell you all of this so that when I did you would know.”

She looked up, her eyes squinting up at him in the afternoon sunshine. When she spoke, her voice was small and unsure, and there was a wobble to it. “What would I know?”

“It was all for you, Lizzy. I needed to be the man worthy of you.”

It was barely a whisper, he looked up at her, he was so earnest, looked so young and scared. Her heart was filled with love for him, she was sure that if you looked closely enough you could see it rushing out of her in frantic bursts of gold and silver.

“I was so sure that that you were going to tell me to get lost, what I did was so shitty and every day I hated myself for it, regretted not telling you where I was, why I left like I did,” he explained, “and yesterday. It felt like I had lost you, thinking about never being with you again, never holding your hand again, never being able to make love to you… it felt like someone had ripped my insides out,”

The Rose Garden was getting busy now and it was when they heard the small squeal of recognition from the girls in the Regency costumes, who came bounding over asking for autographs and selfies with Mr Darcy, which he happily posed for. They decided to move, walking over to the quieter end of the garden, they crunched on the gravel path over to the top lawn, where they could look down past the quarter-cut yew tree towards the house, the vastness of Lantern Wood behind them in the distance.

“I made a promise to myself that I would tell you how I felt, regardless of whether you felt the same way or not, because I want your laugh and your sparkle, and your bad moods. I want that little crinkle above your nose to appear because you are giggling at one of our jokes, and we will have lots of jokes because I want to spend every day laughing with you.” He scanned her face, he could see the turn of her mouth twitching slightly, and he continued. “I want your cold feet on my thighs in bed, and to hold you as you fall asleep,” he carried on, knowing that once everything he felt for her spilled out he would never be able to gather it back in and hide it away again.  “I want cheesecake, and bad films, and kisses in the kitchen… I want your dirty laundry and your credit card bills and filling up the windscreen washer on your car because you always forget, and I know that one day we will be driving somewhere, and you will have forgotten.”

“I do forget…” she agreed.

He nodded, “but out of all of these things, out of everything, mostly I want to be able to wake up next to you every morning. I want your bedhead and your sleepy yawns, and I want to be the man who gets up early and makes the bacon sandwiches.” He caught her smiling, he knew she understood, he knew she wanted it too. “And every day I want to tell you how much I love you,” he sighed. It was all out in the open now. “Even if we are distantly related.”

“Everyone is distantly related,” she sniffed, she could feel the gentle sting in her eyes as her mascara ran.

 “And I don’t want to be the man responsible for making mascara run,” he whispered softly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tissue, placing his fingers gently on her chin he tilted her face upwards and gently dabbed at her eyes.  “I never for a minute thought we were ashes. You have burned in me like a furious fire for this whole time…and I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

She closed her eyes and dipped her head, placing her forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They stopped in front of the bench where he remembered her wiggling past him nearly two years earlier and she stopped his words with a kiss. As the tingles passed through him he thought of all the missed opportunities, the times he had let her slip through his fingers, and he knew that he couldn’t – that he wouldn’t - let anything come between them again. There was a look, an understanding, a promise; this was not acting, this was love.

“Lizzy, I’m not the way you found me. I’ll never be the same.”

She was looking at him with a confused look on her face and he immediately felt as if he had done something wrong.

“What? What have I said?”

“Wait, that’s Hall & Oates” She laughed, “you’re trying to _woo me_ with Hall  & Oates??”

“What?”

“It’s a song…” she began to sing, “what I want you got, and it might be hard to handle…”

 “I told you I was bad at this,” he grinned.

“You _are_ terrible at this!” She beamed up at him, “maybe I should write some words down for you…”

 He took her hand and kissed it softly, “let’s hope that us being together will cancel the terrible out.”

“Being with you would never be terrible,” she bubbled at him, her grey eyes gleaming, “being with you would be the most wonderful thing I could possibly imagine.”

“Interesting you should say that,” he murmured, “because I am planning on being terrible _and_ wonderful with you for the rest of my life.”  

“I love you, Bennett Fitzwilliam,” her face lighting up as her mouth said his real name out loud. “If we’re being all dramatic about it…”

A smile crossed his whole face and he yelled out to the visitors in the distance, “do you hear that? She loves me!” He was gesticulating wildly, looking like a madman escaped from the asylum.

“I love you more, Elizabeth Darcy,” he grinned back. “Even if the irony of this whole situation is not lost on me at all.”

She threw her head back laughing and the sound fell like sunshine into his soul. He kissed her there on the grass under the shadow of the house that played a part in both of their histories, his heart full of love and hope, and his arms wrapped tightly around his dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.


	65. Lizzy

Lizzy gently padded through the hallway, the stone floor warm against her feet on the summer morning – she walked past the sideboard with its collection of pictures in a mismatch of frames; her favourite was the one of her and Benn at her Dad’s wedding. They were standing together, his head pressed gently against hers, her arms around his shoulders, his hands on her waist. It was a perfect moment of tenderness and happiness, captured accidentally and now printed forever. Another showed Harriet at her College Ball, dressed in emerald green and gold, next to her Imogen was throwing her leg up in the air, smiling with glee; pictures of Esther and Anya, no-longer little girls but teenagers blessed with their mothers looks and their fathers humour; Joyce and Hugh at the villa in Cap Ferrat sipping champagne and looking fabulous; Charlie and his boys on the balcony at Pemberley, and at the front in pride of place was a small photograph of Lizzy and her mother, taken at the house in Ealing the day before her fourth birthday.

Joyce Hutchinson retired at the age of sixty-two, leaving Pemberley under the watchful eye of a new management team who loved the house almost as much as she did. Hugh took her travelling and they spent summers in France, surrounded by their blended family of children and grandchildren. Eventually Mrs Darcy got used to be called ‘Your Grace’, but she did thoroughly reprimand her husband once when he nipped to Harrods for a box of teabags. She never got used to wearing a tiara at formal events, but she did get used to being loved deeply by the man she adored every single day. Their wedding had been small and simple, held in a semi-private part of the garden which seemed to have been designed to naturally lend itself to the occasion; Joyce had walked down the aisle with her sons on either side as the scent of the rose garden planted by Lady Anne Darcy floated towards them.

“Hello, you,” he said, unable to quite believe that they were finally doing this. 

Later in the evening, as the families sat in the marquee that had been erected on the West Front lawn, Charlie would declare that this was a love story that had been forty years in the making. Joyce had smiled at Hugh, all at once the reverent twelve-year-old who had visited Pemberley with a papery guidebook and now as the Duchess. Joyce’s own history was now written into that of the house that she loved – not just as the woman who had managed it for so long but now as part of the family who had built it. Pemberley had always been magical, an enchanted castle hiding away in the peaks and valleys. As Hugh pulled her onto the dancefloor, she knew that whilst the journey to get to this point had not been easy, she stepped into her destiny knowing that every choice had brought her to this moment.

They danced under the twinkling fairy-lights hanging from the roof of the marquee as their loved ones stood cheering from the sidelines. She saw Gareth and James, the two boys who had grown into men almost overnight, both fathers now to adorable children; Charles and Joseph Darcy – both handsome and so very tall, looking like their father; Harriet, the girl she had known since birth, blossoming into a true descendant of the Darcy women who had gone before her; Imogen, stronger than she appeared and radiant in the evening light. And then, happy, laughing and completely incandescent, there was Elizabeth, being held tightly by the handsome actor who was looking at her as if she was the most precious thing in the world.

Lizzy found that it was always a lot of fun when the man of your dreams was in your bed, or kissing you on the lawn in some grand, romantic gesture like the film star he was, but it was always a bit disconcerting when you realised that he liked to leave dirty socks on the bedroom floor, loved cricket to a level of boredom and would argue about practically anything if you let him get away with it, especially if he thought it would get you riled.

Sometimes he would swan about the house in a majestic manner, huffing and puffing; she would laugh with Esther and Anya which got him even grumpier, before sending him off to his Man Cave at the bottom of the garden whilst they ordered pizza and watched a film without him. He would return a few hours later and she would pull him into his place on the sofa, throw her legs over him and stroke the curl behind his ear until he nuzzled her gently and they would go to bed. The girls would roll their eyes at each other and turn up the volume on the television.

Sam and Imogen broke up just after Hugh’s wedding, but they remained firm friends and were often found wandering up to The Cage together or hanging out in the Ranger station. It was only when Imogen got accepted onto a course at a college in Preston that Sam realised what he felt for her, declaring himself in front of everyone at the Staff Summer Party after two fruit ciders and a sambuca. Imogen wasn’t sure what she felt but decided that she was happy enough in Derbyshire – her boarding school accent even gaining a soft northern twang, which she quite liked. She had swapped her heels for heifers and nights out on the town for afternoons walking to the pub with the small group of friends that she had accumulated since arriving.

Imogen fully believed that fate had smiled upon her that terrible afternoon, when tired and empty, she had taken too many sleeping tablets, drifting off into the light before being brought crashing back to earth; she was meant to return to Pemberley, was meant to start the new chapter of her story in the historic lands that had belonged to her family for centuries. Home, she thought, every time she crossed the railway bridge and juddered over the cattlegrid; not just the place where she lived, but the place where her heart resided.

Harriet decided to stay at home, rather than live in halls, she loved the little flat at the top of the tower and didn’t see any point in moving her life across the county in cardboard boxes for nine months of the year, when she could easily commute to the Textile Design course that she was undertaking at the University of Derby. With the approval of her mum, she changed her name to Darcy-Wickham. Granny Wickham had never known how much Lizzy had pushed Matthew to put his name on Harriet’s birth certificate, how much she had wanted him to recognise the baby who was his mirror image as his own, and he hadn’t realised how much he had wanted it until it was too late. Now nearly eighteen years later, Harriet embraced it and the family branches of the Wickhams and the Darcys became more permanently entangled and written down officially on the Darcy family tree. Living together in the small flat, Harriet and Imogen were often seen driving a little too fast down the driveway in the yellow Mini, singing Wannabe by the Spice Girls and drinking coffee out of travel mugs as they headed towards campus.

Matthew stayed in Malibu with Tamsin, her fame in the US eclipsing his own and reducing him in some ways to the position of holding her handbag whilst she pouted and smiled for the cameras. She was still devoted to him and, despite the reservations of a few close friends, they worked as a couple, with enough love and mutual respect to build something truly solid. He spent lazy days writing, giving himself a few years off, wanting to spend time with his children. He was as surprised as anyone when his little pet project, written in ten days and filmed on a budget by a small production company, was nominated for the Best Original Screenplay, and even more surprised when he won. Linda, still his stalwart and confidante, asked for more money, better benefits and a bigger office, already anxious for the busy years ahead.

Benn finally won an Oscar for ‘Lilac’, the low budget project that he had done in LA; in the audience, watching as he gleefully accepted the gold statue, was Lizzy, and he looked past the lights and saw her beaming with pride. He declared that his career must have peaked, and over the next few months read fewer scripts, took on less work and decided that he had spent too much of his life away on location.  He went back to theatre; it had always been his first love and there was something about standing on a stage in front of an audience and feeling the immediate emotional response that kept him safe and grounded in a way that hiding on film sets in trailers had never been able to do.

He began to direct; finding interesting and unique tales and constructing wonderful narratives that truly made people think. It was his production of ‘Cat’s Paw’ by a new writer, Louisa Garrett, that caught the attention of critics – it moved to the larger theatres of Manchester, then the West End, before winning an Olivier Award and professional acclaim for the man whose portrayal of Mr Darcy had been called ‘soppy and brooding’ by the film critic in the Daily Mail. Despite the success, Benn continued to base himself at the small theatre in Buxton, where people gradually forgot that he had ever been in the movies and his face blended into the crowd on the high street and people only occasionally asked him if he had been on Coronation Street. He also loved the convenience of being able to commute from the house hidden near the entrance of the Pemberley estate, never too far from the woman who would hold his hand at night whenever he reached for it.

Lizzy and Benn would go for long, meandering walks across the parklands watching as the wind brushed through the grass, the light catching the rustling blades; the spectral image of imagined rabbits darting across the moorland. Laughing, talking, giggling they would walk back to their house in time for dinner with their dog, Jethro, who had been adopted by them after a heated discussion where all family members had differing opinions.  The kitchen would be filled with children and sisters and they would gather around the large table, eating and playing games until Lizzy would lose too much money at Monopoly and tell them all to go home, Harriet shrieking with laughter, as Benn called her a bad sport. She would storm off in a huff, usually, and he would find her reading a book, placating her with coffee and cake, and by doing the washing up, which was, he found, always the quickest way to her heart.

It was nearly midnight amid the celebrations of the Pemberley New Year’s Eve Ball when, casually and without ceremony, he presented her with a sapphire ring that had been his grandmother’s. For a man who had done this before he felt strangely nervous. As he got down on one knee in the splendour of the decorated banqueting hall where they had first danced to Mr Beveridge’s Maggot, he knew that he would never be her firsts in so many things. He knew that he had come too late, when all these things had already been woven into her, were already lines written in the book that he had read, and he loved the woman she was because of all the firsts that had already been, but he wanted all of her lasts in whatever form they came. His gaze had never wavered as she nodded yes - “when did you get so good at this?” – and they kissed until the clock stuck twelve and the tune of Auld Lang Syne echoed out into the courtyard.

 

They celebrated their nuptials in the small chapel at Pemberley the following May, much to the delight of the press who reported ‘Mr Darcy and Lady Darcy’s’ wedding alongside a picture of Colin Firth, obviously. They honeymooned in Paris and nine months later found they were starting all over again; Austen Fitzwilliam-Darcy had his father’s temperament, unlike his sister Evelyn, who arrived a year later, kicking and screaming and very much like her mother. It had been hard at first - the sleeplessness, the night feeds, and then entertaining a toddler whilst holding a newborn-  but when Lizzy looked at her husband, sleeping on the couch, with their daughter on his chest and their son nestled in the crook of his arm, Billie Holiday crooning in the background, she knew that she would not change any of this; that this was where she was meant to be, raising another generation of Darcys on the ancient hunting lands.

She walked out of the patio door and cheekily ruffled her husband’s hair, it was still blonde, but he had grown out his curls, which she loved.  He quickly grabbed her hand, leaning in for kiss as he pegged out the washing in the privacy of their garden in the early morning sunshine. It was going to be a beautiful day and she knew that the house and gardens would be busy. He handed her the Cath Kidston scarf from the washing basket and she disappeared into the house to prepare; fastening her pearls, pinning her hair and ready to play her role as Lady Darcy to perfection, as always. She was Elizabeth Darcy, one of the many resonating voices that threaded themselves into the fabric of Pemberley, knitting the histories of the Darcy women together; a loud, unending echo that reverberated throughout the centuries.

 

A family tree has roots that run deep and dark into the earth that supports it, trailing its way through history, the branches weaving and wending their way through time itself, the leaves sprouting, blooming, falling, before returning to the ground and sustaining the tree with life before the never-ending cycle begins again. It was all here in the crook of the land, in the reflection of the stream that trickled down from the peaks, in the arching curve of the hills that had dominated the geography of the land for centuries before Piers D’Arcy had claimed it for his own. And so, it was as it would always be, the players would change, but the gentle sweeping route through the landscape would lead them all back home, layer upon layer, year upon year. 

The house nestled in the valley would continue to weave its magic into the family who loved it, Pemberley would always remain as constant as the stars in the sky.


	66. Matilda

The woman rode to the summit of the hill overlooking the land; she had ridden here for nearly two days straight, banished to the rough country of the high peaks. Edward had never forgiven her husband for his earlier treachery and treason, and this was the perfect punishment – gift-wrapped in the form of a feral wilderness that he hoped would destroy them all. Matilda looked down on the land before her, resolute and decided; the King may have buried the D’Arcy family in the bitter soil of Derbyshire, but he did not realise that they were seeds.


End file.
